With bittersweetness, Avatar: Fire and Ash closes a chapter on big filmmaking at a time when the maximalist spirit and cinematic frontiersmanship of James Cameron is in increasingly short supply. Few filmmakers have the dexterity to juggle a kitchen-sink approach with clear-eyed storytelling. Even fewer manage the level of care and precision he’s hellbent on preserving within the creative process along the way. Consider the volume of superhero blockbusters that have been churned out over the sixteen years Cameron has spent on Pandora. The diminishing returns of the former put the unparalleled quality control of the latter into stark focus. Despite claims of cultural irrelevance amidst droves of audience turnout, it’s undeniable that the director and his army of craftspeople have conjured skies, forests, and seas that people want to luxuriate in. With his far-off world now fully realized, Fire and Ash allows the veteran showman to really get his hands dirty.
The completeness of this alien biome not only allows Cameron a sandbox to play in, but also to hone character beats with more nuance than the previous films could accommodate. As Jake (Sam Worthington) and Neytiri (Zoe Saldaña) are left reeling in the wake of their elder son’s death, the ever-encroaching human threat bears new weight, with colonization now an imminent endgame. The two are pushed to the darker corners of their nature, wrestling with morally-questionable decisions to ensure the collective Na’vi future, and Cameron takes the opportunity to test their breaking points.
What results are some of the more salient musings found across these three epics. No longer content to just be a broad treatise on colonialism or capitalist greed, Fire and Ash confronts the paradoxes of assimilation that have dogged the first film. One particular conversation finds Jake reckoning with the ongoing effect his human origins have on the mixed family he’s helped build. Meanwhile, Neytiri is so consumed by grief and hate that the seething poison of animosity mutates beyond resentment of The Other, corrupting even the bonds between parent and child. The film’s candor with this exchange is somewhat shocking—an impressive level of self-examination for any blockbuster, but especially a franchise with such contentious notions on appropriation. Each of these moments is anchored by the sturdy, reliable nature of Worthington, Saldaña, and Stephen Lang. Saldaña has always been the captivating force that fully sells this world (and the technical wizardry used to preserve the performance), but it bears noting that Worthington has become so much more comfortable as a lead since 2009. Now a much more relaxed actor, he fully commands the frame.
The evolution of Lang’s Quaritch continues, likewise, to be among the more fascinating villain turns in recent memory. Lang remains fully keyed into this character, beautifully coalescing the evils of a repugnant racist with the ambivalence of someone liberated—ironically—through the lived experience of those he’s tasked with exterminating. His warped transition, a dark reflection of Jake’s in Avatar, is likewise bolstered by a Na’vi woman: Varang (a mesmerizing Oona Chaplin). Leading a tribe of rebel Na’vi marauders, she finds common cause with Quaritch, and their sadistic chemistry lights the film up—a lesson in the true joy of finding someone who matches your freak.
The more robust dimensionality to the ensemble is matched only by the behemoth scope of the narrative. As with The Way of Water, the supporting cast is given a significant amount of screen time. Fire and Ash makes specific focus on Spider (Jack Champion), Quaritch’s biological son adopted by the Sullys. Cameron gambles a bit by saddling Spider with this chapter’s most crucial developments, thus riding much on an admirable-but-uneven performance. He wisely buffers Champion with stronger members of the cast—most notably Sigourney Weaver, who continues to amaze as the fifteen-year-old Kiri. The geography of so many disparate threads is miraculously cohesive, even if it’s almost too much movie.
In that same spirit of excess, the predictably grandiose spectacle firmly solidifies itself as an industry gold standard. Cameron wrings the most from his environment and its inhabitants, not just for the sake of going-for-broke, but to deliver something thematically resonant, folding the first two films on top of each other. The set pieces contain elements that are seemingly rehashed from earlier films, but upon inspection are inversions of them in order to subvert expected outcomes. The action itself serves to spotlight the cyclical nature of the violence thrust upon our characters. At each incursion, Quaritch and Jake often find themselves perplexed and exhausted by their ongoing confrontations. It’s as if the constant call to war can only end in rubble, and something has to break this cycle, lest the whole thing burn to the ground.
Though it doesn’t hit the potent catharsis of Way of Water’s best moments, Avatar: Fire and Ash satisfies as a continuation and conclusion to that chapter. Deftly maneuvering the massive narrative, James Cameron imbues his film with trademark sincerity and goofy earnestness. Both are enriched by a sense of self-reflection and maturity that is woefully absent from most studio fare. All of it is carefully packaged with the master craftsman’s knack for wonder and awe. With the world of Pandora (and possibly filmmaking) behind him, James Cameron remains steadfast that more is more.
Avatar: Fire and Ash opens on Friday, December 19.