The End of Oak Street (2026)

David Robert Mitchell went from It Follows to Under the Silver Lake to brontosaurus sex, and honestly, good for him.

The guy who made It Follows made a dinosaur movie, and it might be the best one since Jurassic Park. That’s a lower bar than it sounds. Jurassic Park is untouchable, but almost everything that came after it is schlock, and The End of Oak Street clears the schlock easily.

David Robert Mitchell takes a whole 1982 suburban street, block parties and bike rides and a dad sneaking drinks in the garage, drops it into the Mesozoic, and plays the whole thing like a lost Amblin movie somebody found in a Blockbuster return slot. It runs 100 minutes and wastes almost none of them, which feels like a small miracle in a genre that now expects two and a half hours of CGI and franchise homework.

I’m not saying it’s as good as Jurassic Park. Nothing is. But it knows exactly what kind of movie it wants to be, and it nails that feeling in a tight little package.

My one real complaint is the Platts. This family has just watched their entire neighborhood get ripped out of time and dumped into the darkest shit any of them have ever seen, and they respond by asking each other questions. Constantly. Where are we, what was that, what do we do now, is everything going to be okay. Nobody in this movie knows the answers, and they keep asking anyway, at volume, while things with teeth are nearby. Anne Hathaway and Ewan McGregor do their best as the parents, but I spent a good chunk of the runtime wanting to lean into the screen and tell everyone to fucking relax, please.

Also, Jurassic Park would never show you two dinosaurs having sex. This movie does, in all its Spielbergian glory, and I respect it enormously.

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