The Accidental Brilliance of Above & Below: How a Shark Movie Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Chaos
Let’s get one thing straight: shark movies are stuck in a rut. For decades, filmmakers have tried to out-Creature-Feature Jaws by cranking up the terror, the gore, or the pseudoscience. But in 2026, a film called Above & Below quietly flipped the script by asking a radical question: What if the real monster isn’t the shark—or the criminals—but the characters themselves?
When Crime Thrillers and Sea Monsters Collide
The premise sounds like a studio exec’s fever dream: a group of vapid influencers get trapped between a gang of mercenaries and a feeding frenzy of sharks. But this collision of genres isn’t just gimmicky—it’s revelatory. By splitting the threat between surface-level criminals and underwater predators, the film dismantles the lazy trope that nature is the ultimate villain. The real danger here is human stupidity, a theme I didn’t realize I needed until I saw a character yell, “We’re diving into shark water for this?!” before immediately doing it anyway.
Antonio Banderas: The Unlikely Scream King
Casting Banderas as a pirate-king with a telenovela accent feels like a masterstroke of chaos. This isn’t just hammy acting—it’s a full-blown commitment to absurdity. His character, Burns, delivers lines like, “You think the ocean’s cruel? Meet my accountant,” with the deadpan gravitas of a man who’s either a genius or sleep-deprived. Personally, I think this role cements Banderas as the David Bowie of B-movies: perpetually weird, always magnetic, and unafraid to burn his own legacy for a laugh.
Sharks: The Ultimate Background Actors
Here’s the twist—Above & Below treats its sharks like moody extras. They’re there, sure, but they’re mostly busy being majestic rather than murderous. The CGI work is solid, even if the sharks resemble glowing toothy eels in low-light scenes. But what makes this fascinating is how the film subverts expectations: the real horror isn’t the bite, it’s the fact that everyone’s too busy arguing over a MacGuffin to notice the gaping hole in the boat. It’s a sly commentary on how humans create drama even when nature’s handing out free disasters.
The Gift of Pointless Agency
Laura Marano’s Tatiana is the poster child for “empowered” characters who somehow make everything worse. She “takes charge” by suggesting increasingly dumb plans, like using a speargun to fight a submarine or trusting a GPS app in shark territory. The writers give her enough rope to hang herself (and everyone else), which I found oddly refreshing. It’s a reminder that competence porn is overrated—give me blissfully incompetent chaos if it means more scenes of people yelling, “I’m a strong female lead!” while drowning in their own bad decisions.
Why This Mess Works (And Why It Shouldn’t)
What many people don’t realize is that Above & Below thrives precisely because it’s a narrative dumpster fire. The film’s DNA is a Frankenstein’s monster of Saw, The Shallows, and a telenovela episode left in a microwave too long. The tension isn’t scary—it’s hilarious. When a character dies mid-monologue because someone shot them for breathing too loud, you’re not supposed to gasp. You’re supposed to snort-laugh and yell, “Finally!”
The Future of Stupid Cinema
This film isn’t just a guilty pleasure—it’s a blueprint. We’re witnessing the rise of “chaos cinema,” where the joy comes from watching characters sabotage themselves harder than any shark ever could. It’s the cinematic equivalent of rubbernecking at a car crash where everyone’s wearing clown shoes. If you take a step back, this makes sense: in an era of algorithm-driven content, audiences are craving stories that feel deliciously out of control rather than polished into oblivion.
Final Verdict: Feast on This Hot Mess
Is Above & Below a masterpiece? Absolutely not. Is it the most fun I’ve had watching a movie this year? Unequivocally yes. It’s the cinematic version of eating a deep-fried butter stick at a carnival: terrible decisions, unforgettable experience. By the time Banderas’ Burns drowns while yelling about “fiscal irresponsibility,” you’ll realize the film’s true secret weapon isn’t sharks or guns—it’s the sweet, sweet sound of karma.
