PTAbro’s review published on Letterboxd:
Colin Trevorrow hates you.
He hates that you'll lap up any shit that Hollywood spits out and break box office records in the process. He hates that you don't give a shit about filmic legacies and regurgitated (sometimes shot-for-shot) scenes that neither hold a candle to the original or are purposely derisive to it. He hates that you'll take any non-sensical, lazy plot and keep coming back, even after being burned so many times before. He hates you so much that he'd like to see you tortured, drowned, and then eaten alive.
Colin Trevorrow hates Hollywood.
He hates that the only important thing in making money in Hollywood (and thus being successful) means selling out and focusing on spectacle and superficiality. He hates that the less integrity you have, the more money you get from producers. He hates that films praised in their time get no respect and are treated merely as nostalgia-induced triggers that are a license to print money. He hates it so much that he wants to see fail spectacularly under the watchful, anticipatory gaze of those it swindles and fleeces and then burn to the ground.
Colin Trevorrow hates himself.
He hates that through his laziness or desperation, he has become an idol even when knowing (hopefully) he has produced nothing of value or merit apart from lining stockholders pockets. He hates that he must keep up appearances of trying to appease the masses even though he hates them, since he long ago lost the confidence to actually try. He hates that, somewhere along the line, he did try, and was rewarded with less and less freedom to actually create something new and interesting, and instead is trapped in this prison he willingly walked into. He hates himself so much he'd like to die in the burning wreckage of his craft under the suffocating dome of Hollywood harpies.
Hey, Colin. At least for me, the feeling's mutual.
I tried again to find something to like or at least to tolerate in Jurassic World. Fool me once (Safety Not Guaranteed), shame on me. Upping the ante, Trevorrow has crafted a film of hate, of disgust; trying to knock down the foundation it was built upon by tainting its memory and even tossing a few derogatory jokes its way. If anything positive can be said, it's that Jurassic World at least does not provide an explicit warning before the film starts about how much it detests you, itself, and everything about it and manages to lazily hide that message through a thin veil of allegory. I wish I could claim Trevorrow was making a bold statement with this antithesis to Jurassic Park - that it is man's duty to kill its gods and die a lonely death - but, like that horrific scene by the campfire in his last movie, I'm not sure Trevorrow is fully in on his own joke. Maybe he'll get it right in the sequel (cue distressed wailing).