The Shipping Dock
“We can see your light,” the radio said. “Three minutes. Stay where you are.”
Eli pressed the transmit button. “Six of us. One injured.” He waited for the click before saying thank you, then said it again while the other man was answering. Beyond the container yard, a white beam passed through the rain. The rescue boat had cleared the breakwater. Its engine reached them a few seconds later, a slow, irregular knocking beneath the wind. Mara closed her eyes. Bell lowered his head against her shoulder. His mouth moved, but Eli heard nothing. Herrera looked away from the gate. Vale began to laugh and stopped almost immediately, embarrassed by the sound.
For several seconds they watched the light. Eli had restored the relay with a screwdriver held between his teeth and Bell's blood drying on his sleeve. The distress call had gone out. Somebody had answered. There was a boat, with a warm cabin and people who did not yet know what the animals looked like. He could see a person moving behind its windscreen.
Lucía took the handset before he could transmit again. “Save it for directions.” She adjusted the strap on Mara's medical bag and looked at Bell's leg. The splint had shifted. “Can you put any weight on it?” Bell nodded too quickly. When they helped him down the first step, his breath stopped. Eli waited for it to start again.
They had ninety metres to cross. Eli knew because he had measured the cable run that afternoon. Ninety metres from the maintenance building to the workshop, another twelve to the quay. The red extension cable still lay in the drainage channel. It would take them past the pump cabinet and through the last row of containers. He pictured the route while Mara tightened the splint. Two left turns, one right. Bell could do that. They could stop at the cabinet.
“The quay's damaged,” Lucía told the boat. “Stay off the end. We'll come to you.” The pilot acknowledged her. She clipped the radio to her belt and went down the steps. Vale followed with the torch. Eli and Mara brought Bell between them. Herrera came last, carrying a flare pistol and the two cartridges he had taken from the emergency locker.
The first container sounded as they passed beneath the gantry. It gave a deep, sustained note, loud enough for Eli to feel through Bell's back. Vale turned the torch. Its beam showed a hanging chain, white corrugated steel and a black seam of vegetation along a roof. The note decayed into a fine vibration. Somewhere beyond the first stack, three shorter impacts answered it.
Eli had heard that sound from the clinic. A loose door, they had said. He remembered Herrera standing at the window, listening after everyone else had returned to Bell. Now Herrera was listening again. His face had changed. “Keep moving,” he said.
At the first junction a container door stood across the lane. Lucía pushed it against the stack, holding it while they brought Bell through. The retaining chain lay in the water. Its hook had opened far enough to slip its eye. Eli recognised the bright scrape inside the bend. He had photographed it for the maintenance report two days earlier. Under corrective action, someone had written SECURED.
Bell's splint struck the edge. He made a small noise. Lucía looked past him before letting the door go. It swung back a few centimetres and stopped. Eli expected to see the pump cabinet through the next opening. Vale's light found a refrigerated container instead. Another door projected from it, turning the lane into a narrow passage. Above the hinge was a red square of the InGen emblem.
Lucía stopped. The cable crossed the concrete in front of her and disappeared beneath the door. She looked back at the junction they had just used. “We should be on the other side.” Eli tried to reconcile the cable with the route in his head. They had turned left. He was certain of that. The container behind them rang again.
They all looked. At the far end of the passage, rain fell from an overhead brace. A chain moved very slightly against the wall. Eli held his torch on the opening until his wrist began to hurt. Then the dark vertical shape beside the brace became a neck. The head was lower than he expected, almost level with Bell's chest. One eye returned the light.
The animal had been standing there when he raised the torch. He could account for the outline now: the jaw beside the brace, the folded forelimbs, the bands continuing from its neck into the shadows. It had not stepped into view. Eli had finally separated it from the things around it. A thread of water lengthened beneath its chin and fell.
Herrera moved in front of them. “Together. No running.” The raptor watched him. Its eye moved to Mara, then down to Bell's splint. Bell tried to draw his leg beneath his body. Eli felt the effort through the arm across his shoulders. The animal turned its head against the container, placing the side of its skull near a buckled panel. It withdrew a short distance and struck.
The steel boomed. Bell jerked hard enough to pull Mara sideways. The raptor watched the movement. It struck again. Vale backed into the door behind him, which swung away to expose a lane full of white light. “There,” he said. “The dock.” Lucía caught his sleeve. Above them came a soft, rising sound, almost a horse's whinny, with breath at the end of it.
Eli raised the torch. A foot rested on the nearest roof edge. The smaller toes were spread over wet moss. Above them, the inner claw remained lifted clear of the steel. His light travelled up a folded leg and stopped on the underside of a narrow body. The second animal lay crouched over the junction. Its head extended beyond the lip, pointed down at the place where Vale would have stepped.
For a moment the eye was hidden by its brow. Then the neck rotated a little, bringing it into the beam. Eli could see the small adjustments around the pupil. The animal was looking at the torch. Lucía pushed his arm down and pulled him against the wall. The head withdrew. Water spilled from the roof. There was no accompanying clang.
That troubled him enough to interrupt the fear. The maintenance crew crossed those roofs on reinforced walkways. A dropped spanner could be heard in the clinic. This animal had moved its entire weight without the thin panels drumming. Farther along the stack, a third whinny answered. Herrera had heard it too. He was watching the first raptor's feet.
“Back through the opening,” he said. “Slowly.” They began to move. The animal in the lane advanced with them, placing each foot before transferring its weight. Its head scarcely changed height. Eli kept waiting for it to rush Herrera. Instead, it looked beyond him, towards the space between Eli and Mara.
The door beside Bell hit his splint. Eli felt the injured man's arm slide across his shoulders. For an instant he was carrying the weight alone. Then Bell was pulled sideways through the gap behind the steel. His fingers dragged along Eli's collar and came away. Mara reached for him. Herrera caught her before she could follow.
Bell shouted once. There was a hard scrape on the concrete, followed by the quick, irregular impacts of his free heel. “Help me,” he said. He sounded close enough for Eli to reach. Eli could see the edge of his trouser leg below the door. He went towards it. Herrera caught his shirt and hauled him back so violently that the collar cut his throat.
“Help me.” Bell put a hand around the edge. His fingers spread against the white paint. Eli reached for them. The hand vanished. Something struck the lower panel from inside, and Bell's voice changed into a sequence of short, forced sounds. Mara began calling his name. A boot came out beneath the door and remained upright in the rain. It was the boot from his uninjured leg. Eli could not understand how Bell had lost it so quickly.
The radio said, “We have the quay. Where are you?” Mara struggled against Herrera. The raptor in the lane stopped advancing and watched her. Each time she pulled away, its head moved a little. Lucía caught Mara's other arm. Eli looked at the discarded boot and saw the red cable tightening beneath it. Bell was being dragged across the channel.
Herrera raised the flare pistol. The discharge struck Eli's ears with a pressure he felt in his teeth. A flare hit the opposite container and fell burning between them and the raptor. Red light filled the passage. The animal drew its head back, opening its mouth to show the pale skin inside the jaw. Herrera broke the pistol open. The spent case fell into the water.
He reached for the second cartridge. Mara moved against his elbow. The cartridge struck the wall and dropped through the drain grate at his feet. Eli heard it hit twice beneath the concrete. Herrera stared down. Then he closed the pistol and held it out again. “Past me,” he said. “Keep going.”
They edged around the flare. The raptor retreated a step. Herrera followed it. Eli saw his shoulders settle as the animal gave ground. For a moment he looked like the handler who had shown them how to move a frightened calf away from a gate. Lucía said his name. He did not look back. A few fragments of moss landed on his collar.
Herrera glanced up. The animal in front lowered its body. He brought the empty pistol towards it, and the second raptor came down behind him. Its weight drove him into the wall. One forelimb caught the corrugations beside his head. The tail swept the flare beneath a container. In the moving red light Eli saw Herrera's hand searching for purchase on the wet steel.
The pistol hit the ground. Herrera was still standing when the animal turned him. His boots took two short steps in the wrong direction. Then Lucía had Eli's wrist and was pulling him around the corner. Herrera screamed. The sound followed them into the next lane, cut off, and began again while Eli was trying to decide whether he had heard his own name.
Lucía pushed him into a recess between two units. Mara came in beside him. Vale crouched at the corner, wiping his spectacles with a shirt already soaked through. Eli could not make his breathing quiet. Each exhalation ended in a small sound he had to swallow before he could draw air again. His left shoulder remained raised. It took him several seconds to realise that he was still making room for Bell's arm.
“Look at me,” Lucía whispered. He tried. She pointed down at his boots. “Short steps. Put your foot down before your weight.” Across the lane, something brushed the roof. Eli began to raise the torch. Lucía put her palm over the lens. Light glowed red through her fingers. “Wait.”
The boat's searchlight passed over the stack. A raptor moved along the far roof, so close that Eli could see the rain collecting beneath its belly. One toe came down on bare steel. The panel clicked. The animal stopped. For two seconds nothing moved except the water. It lifted the foot, shifted it towards the moss along the edge and continued.
The green strip ran the length of the container. At the junction it crossed an old maintenance bridge onto the next roof. The centres of the panels were mostly bare. Vegetation occupied the reinforced edges and the places where a body could lie without projecting above the stack. Eli had spent three afternoons reviewing those camera feeds. Rain. Ferns. The dark line beneath a railing. He remembered enlarging one image until the pixels broke apart, then accepting Vale's explanation that a branch had moved.
At a break in the green strip, the animal paused. It lowered its head, picked up a clump of wet litter and dropped it over an exposed brace. One foot pressed down. The brace did not click. The raptor crossed it, bringing the other foot to precisely the same place. Its tail passed out of the searchlight.
Eli remembered the drains. Lucía cleared them on Monday. By Wednesday they were blocked again. Fern stalks and moss had been packed into the shallow channels along the roof edges. The standing water kept the growth alive. They had blamed the jungle contractors, though no one could explain why the contractors would throw cuttings onto roofs. The work order had been closed as environmental obstruction. He could see the phrase on the screen in the office.
“The drains,” he whispered. Lucía looked towards the roof. “They've been putting it back.” He could not know how much of the arrangement was deliberate. He had seen one animal silence a brace. He had seen the path it used. The uncertainty offered him no comfort. Whatever the workers had thought they were clearing, the animals had been restoring it.
Three blows sounded beyond the next stack. Vale turned towards them, then away, finding a narrow opening between two doors. White light moved through it. “I can see the boat.” Lucía reached for his jacket. He was already standing. He took three quick steps and raised a hand to somebody beyond the gap.
The searchlight moved. The white patch slid off a rusted wall. Vale stopped with his arm still raised. The door behind him swung shut. Something heavy struck it from the far side. His torch fell into the opening, sending a flat oval of light across Eli's boots. The radio on Lucía's belt opened with a burst of static.
“There's one here.” Vale was breathing so hard that the microphone clipped the ends of his words. Eli took out his handset. “Back the way you went.” Metal rattled against metal. Vale said, “The door.” His voice was very small now. “Open the door.” Lucía was shaking her head. Mara pressed both hands over her mouth.
Eli put his torch towards the gap. A narrow hand appeared below the door, its three fingers flexing above the concrete. One claw caught the bottom seam. Vale said, “Open the fucking door,” and the steel moved towards them. Eli stepped back. He heard Vale draw breath to speak again. The scream that followed came through the radio before its echo reached them along the lane.
He turned towards the speaker, then towards the actual voice, unable to place either. Something hit the handset at Vale's end. The transmission continued. There were quick scrapes, a long exhalation and a faint knocking sound. Eli's thumb remained over his own transmit button. Lucía folded his hand shut and pulled him after her.
They emerged beside the refrigerated unit. The InGen emblem shone red in the torchlight. Below it was a black handprint, four fingers and the heel of a palm. Eli looked at his own hand. Dirt from the maintenance steps still filled the lines. He had left that print when they brought Bell through the first door.
Mara saw him looking. “No,” she said. Eli followed the cable with his light. It crossed the lane in exactly the same place. The containers had stayed where the freight crew left them. The doors had changed the routes between them. A panel across a narrow passage made the wider lane seem usable. Another panel turned that lane back towards the junction. Above them, the roofs allowed the animals to cross in seconds a distance the people needed half a minute to walk.
He could no longer picture the yard without putting something at the next opening. The plan on the office wall showed the boxes as solid rectangles. The space between them was unmarked. Everybody had treated that space as available. Eli looked at the door beside him and tried to remember which way it had stood before the first sound.
“They're pushing us,” Mara whispered. Beyond the wall, the boat's engine idled. The pilot called again. Lucía lifted the radio. “We're in the yard. Three of us.” There was a pause. “What happened to the others?” She let go of the transmit button. Eli watched her count the remaining turnings with her eyes.
She knelt beside the cable. “The workshop.” He looked at her without understanding. “We brought the reel out through the side.” The workshop stood in the last row, close to the quay. Its personnel door opened into the strip between the stack and the dock fence. From there, a drainage channel passed under the adjoining container. Lucía had crawled through it that morning to free a snagged length of cable.
She pulled the white door towards her. It scraped across the concrete, moved another few centimetres and stopped. A dark line appeared above its upper edge. Eli saw the nostrils before he understood the shape. The head lowered until one eye looked down at Lucía's hands. She released the steel. The animal held still. There was water in the small depressions along its snout.
Eli backed into Mara. The raptor pressed its brow against the door. The panel moved. Its head tipped to follow Lucía's fingers as she withdrew them. Then it pushed hard enough for the edge to strike her knee. Lucía turned and ran. Eli followed her into the lane beside the refrigerated unit. Mara's boots struck immediately behind his own. He heard nothing else running.
At the workshop, Lucía hit the entrance with her shoulder. The latch caught for an instant before the door opened. Eli slipped on the threshold. Mara seized the back of his shirt and pushed him inside. The room smelled of old oil and rubber belts. The bench grinder stood where he had left it after loosening its mounting bolts that afternoon. Beyond it, Lucía opened the side exit. The boat's light moved across the fence.
Eli went around the bench. Mara followed, her medical bag scraping the vice. He could see Lucía outside. He could hear the pilot shouting across the water. They were close enough to answer without the radio. He took another step, and a shadow travelled across the floor in front of him.
The raptor stood in the main entrance, its head beneath the hanging belts. A wet fern stem clung above one ankle. Mara stopped at the end of the bench. Eli reached back. Her bag fell between them. The animal moved, striking the workbench with its shoulder. The grinder slid off its loosened mounting and hit Mara's shin. She caught the edge of the bench to keep herself upright.
Eli got two of her fingers. He pulled. For an instant he could feel her coming towards him. Then the raptor's body passed between them. Her fingers slipped out of his hand. Lucía dragged him through the side exit, and he struck the fence with both palms. Inside, Mara said his name in the voice she had used all evening when she needed him to hold Bell still.
He pushed away from the fence. Mara was on the floor with one knee beneath her. The animal's head turned towards the opening. A claw struck the jamb above Eli's wrist and pulled a strip of rubber seal away from the frame. Lucía put her shoulder against the door. Eli held the handle, trying to keep it open. He could see Mara's hand reaching around the animal's flank.
The raptor hit the panel from inside. Eli's fingers folded against the frame. He cried out and pulled them clear. Lucía drove the door shut, but the latch failed to drop. A black gap opened beside her face. Eli put his left hand against the steel. Together they forced the door into its frame. The latch fell with the same small click he had heard every time he used the workshop.
Mara struck the other side. “Open it.” Eli put his injured hand around the handle. A second impact came lower down. He heard her shoes sliding across the floor. A tray fell off the bench. He knew which tray. He had moved it to reach the grinder's bolts. Mara drew breath, and Lucía caught his wrist before he could turn the handle.
“Eli.” He could hear exactly where Mara was. The workbench stood less than two metres from the exit. The steel enclosed every movement and made it enormous. Her voice rose. He pulled once against Lucía's grip. She held him with both hands. Above the lane, water spilled from a roof edge.
Lucía looked up. Then she let go of him and dropped to the ground. Eli thought her legs had failed. She pushed the torch beneath the adjoining container. Its beam caught the red cable running through oily water. The unit stood on concrete sleepers, leaving a clearance of thirty centimetres above the channel. Farther in, a crossmember reduced it again. Beyond that was a pale strip of sea light.
Lucía lay on her stomach. She turned her head sideways and pushed herself under the floor. Eli lowered himself beside her. His right hand would not take his weight. He used his elbow, bringing his shoulder hard against the steel. Mara was still alive when he began to crawl. He could hear her through the concrete beneath his chest.
He emptied his lungs to pass the first crossmember. Water entered his collar. Ahead, Lucía moved one arm at a time, pushing against the sleepers. Eli tried to copy her. The cable lay against his cheek. He lifted his face to breathe, struck his forehead on the underside of the container and swallowed water. The cough started before he could stop it.
Lucía went still. “Quiet.” Eli pressed his mouth into his sleeve. Each spasm pushed his back against the floor. He could not fill his lungs enough to clear them. Behind him, something struck the workshop wall. Then Mara stopped making any sound. He stopped moving too. Lucía reached back through the water and closed her hand around his wrist.
“Keep coming.” He brought one knee forward. The light beyond her boots grew wider. He could smell the sea beneath the oil. There was room beyond the next sleeper to raise his head. He was looking at that space when something touched the sole of his boot. He drew his foot forward. The boot did not move.
Eli turned as far as the gap allowed. His torch lay behind him, its beam pointing back along the channel. An eye occupied the small space between the floor and the water. The animal had lowered its head almost flat. A narrow hand reached beneath the edge beside it. One claw had entered the loop above his heel.
He kicked. The claw pulled. His shoulders caught under the crossmember. The pressure drove the air from his chest. He could not raise his back or lower his body. His mouth opened against water. He felt the boot twisting his ankle, then a brief, hot breath against the skin above his sock. The animal's teeth clicked on steel.
Lucía took both his wrists. “Straighten your foot.” He tried to turn towards her. There was no room. She pulled harder. He could feel the lace cutting across his instep. “Your toes, Eli. Point them.” He pushed his foot down inside the boot. Pain travelled around the heel as the leather folded beneath the claw.
His foot came free. The sudden release drove his face into the channel. Lucía pulled him through the last gap before he could inhale. He emerged outside the dock fence and rolled onto the narrow concrete ledge. The boat lay a few metres off the broken quay. A crewman stood at the stern with a life ring. His mouth was moving. It took Eli a moment to understand that he was being told to jump.
Lucía went first. Eli heard the splash and watched her head appear beside the rope. He stepped off before he could look back. Cold water closed over him. His bare foot struck something below the surface. He kicked towards the light and surfaced facing the yard. The boat had moved. Its pilot was turning the stern towards them, keeping the propeller clear.
The ring hit the water beside him. He caught its rope with his left hand. His right would not close. Lucía held the other side. Above the fence, a raptor stepped onto the workshop roof. A second appeared behind it. Their heads moved together as the rope tightened between the people in the water and the man on the boat.
The crewman brought Lucía onto the platform. Eli reached for its edge and lost his grip. Water closed over his face. Hands seized his shirt and lifted him again. The engine rose in pitch. His ribs struck the rail. Then he was lying on the deck beside Lucía, coughing seawater onto a coil of rope.
Someone was asking where he was hurt. Eli watched Lucía. Her face was turned away, and for several seconds she did not move. When she raised her head, he closed his eyes. He could still feel Mara's fingers sliding out of his own.
“How many?” the pilot called. Lucía looked towards the yard. “How many of you?” Eli tried to answer. The crewman crouched beside him. From shore came the low, resonant note of an empty container being struck. Eli jerked upright, and the man caught him before he hit the rail.
“You're aboard. You're safe.” The pilot eased the throttle. “You told us six.” Lucía still held the radio. She looked at it, then raised two fingers. Nobody spoke. The searchlight remained on the upper containers. Along their edges, the narrow green paths shone in the rain. One animal lowered itself into the vegetation. Eli watched until he could no longer separate its body from the roof.
“Keep going,” Lucía said. The pilot looked back. “Please.” He increased the throttle. The searchlight moved away from the yard. Eli sat with his bare foot against the engine housing. His injured fingers rested in a curve around something that was no longer there. He could feel the workshop handle, the resistance before it turned, the small mechanical certainty of the latch dropping into place.
Behind the containers, something struck the steel three times. Eli kept listening for Mara to take another breath.
Why I Want Ali Awada to Direct Jurassic
Dear Universal Pictures, hire Ali Awada to direct a Jurassic film. Give the Australian creator of Muldoon's Log a screenplay built around ordinary people doing necessary work in a place they have been assured is safe. I would cast Caleb McLaughlin as Eli Ward, the communications technician in the sequence above, and Sophie Wilde as Lucía Rojas, the electrical technician who gets him through it. My preferred setting remains the early 1990s. I would welcome a version set during the Jurassic World era if that gives Jurassic Park: Survival the space it deserves. The proposal depends on a particular understanding of suspense, and that understanding can survive a change of date or title.
Six people can see their rescue boat. They have already done the difficult work of restoring communications and keeping an injured colleague alive. Ninety metres of familiar yard remain between them and a way home. Four never reach it. That is the premise of Killmaze, my proposed third-act escape sequence for a film with the working title The Perimeter. Everything that makes the crossing terrible should have been present earlier, while the workers were carrying equipment, clearing drains and finishing their shifts. By the time they enter the yard together, the audience should know enough to dread what they are about to misunderstand.
Awada is the filmmaker whose work makes me believe that an official Jurassic production could sustain this feeling again. For me, his best work captures the frightening possibilities of Jurassic more convincingly than anything the screen franchise has produced since 1993. That is a personal judgement, and I mean it specifically. I am responding to his patience with an enclosure, his interest in animal behaviour and his willingness to let a routine observation become disturbing before anything attacks. I want the person making those choices to have a serious opportunity to direct a feature, with the collaborators, preparation and resources that a feature requires.
The Kitchen Sequence Was Earned
The original Jurassic Park makes the raptors a culminating threat. We learn about their intelligence and their attempts to escape before the kitchen forces two children into close proximity with them. The film has taught us enough to understand what the animals might do, while leaving us uncertain about what they will actually do. In the kitchen, every available surface acquires a consequence. A reflection can misdirect an animal. A utensil can betray a child. A door remains meaningful because the film has made us attend to the mechanics of opening it. The suspense grows from the relationship between a known space and an incompletely understood intelligence.
The shipping yard should honour that achievement through its construction. Rain on corrugated steel, a workshop personnel door, a refrigerated unit and a shallow drain belong to a different workplace. The audience learns them through the people who use them. Later, the same knowledge lets us anticipate a mistake, recognise a trap or understand why an apparently small injury has made an ordinary action almost impossible. The sequence needs an identity of its own. Its kinship with the kitchen would come from how carefully it has earned our attention.
That changes the production's priorities. A new dinosaur should appear because its presence gives the story an experience it needs. The number of species available for a poster is a poor organising principle for a screenplay. Three raptors, observed carefully and withheld intelligently, can become a more formidable third-act prospect than another procession of animals introduced before we have absorbed the last one. Their arrival should carry the accumulated pressure of everything we have heard and failed to see. A creature already familiar to millions of viewers can still surprise us through the circumstances in which we encounter it.
There is room for admiration of the sequels within this argument. The Lost World's trailers and long grass remain powerful. Jurassic Park III gives its predators a physical hostility that can still make a person feel exposed. Individual passages across the World films have considerable craft. Rebirth benefits from Gareth Edwards's sensitivity to landscape and animal presence. Those achievements make the opportunity more frustrating. The franchise repeatedly demonstrates that it retains the components of suspense, then moves on before an environment or a relationship can acquire the depth that would make the next encounter hurt.
Jurassic Park also begins with people doing a dangerous job. The first fatality occurs during a handling procedure. Later, the consequences of a technical failure have to be addressed by people who must physically reach the equipment. That relationship between work and danger belongs to the premise from the beginning. Michael Crichton's novel gives the institution's confidence an additional severity: systems conceal assumptions, and the people operating them do not necessarily know what has been excluded from the model. A new film can build upon that concern without borrowing his sentences or replaying his scenes.[1]
Why Awada Understands the Workplace
Awada describes Muldoon's Log as unofficial Jurassic fan fiction, presented through a lapel-camera and VHS framework, with an alternative continuity combining elements of the novels and films. His own description emphasises the problems of keeping dinosaurs in captivity, alongside mystery and horror. These are useful foundations for the film I am proposing because they make the park an institution that somebody has to operate. Feeding, inspection and containment can establish an animal before the story gives it an unobstructed view.[2]
Consider the difference a feeding procedure makes. A visitor waits for a dinosaur to appear. A worker watches for a particular response, because the next part of the procedure depends on it. If the response fails to come, or arrives at the wrong gate, a small deviation changes the meaning of the whole scene. Awada's interest in that work gives the fear a practical basis. A character has something specific to notice and a reason to keep watching even when watching has become uncomfortable. The environment accumulates expectations that the animal can eventually violate.
The relevance to Killmaze is direct. Eli needs to know where the cable goes because he installed it. Lucía recognises the significance of the roof drains because clearing them has become an irritating recurring task. Herrera's experience gives him useful knowledge, along with an expectation that the animals' behaviour can be managed. Vale has approved a record that is easier to trust than to reopen. Awada's sensibility would make these distinctions worth establishing before the emergency. The horror becomes personal when a working assumption fails at the precise moment someone needs it.
I would want him involved while the screenplay and the physical yard were being developed. The position of a camera, the distance between two container doors and the time an actor needs to cross an opening cannot be treated as separate matters once suspense depends on their relationship. His value would lie in directing those choices through the production. A studio could offer him polished creature work and an experienced crew while protecting the observational patience that made his work worth noticing in the first place.
The Raptors We Fail to Notice
One detail I remember Awada discussing has stayed with me: placing raptors within shots so discreetly that viewers might never notice them.[3] The idea is unsettling because it changes what an uneventful image means. The animal can occupy the frame while the viewer accepts the frame as empty. Once that possibility has occurred to us, we begin searching a patch of foliage or a gap beside a building even when the camera offers no instruction to do so.
There is a particular confidence in spending effort on something that may escape a first viewing. A conventional reveal directs attention towards an effect and asks the audience to appreciate it. A concealed animal can remain part of the world whether or not we find it. The knowledge that such a placement might exist makes the viewer less certain of their own competence. We have been looking at the scene for a long time, and looking has failed to establish whether it is safe.
That is exactly the kind of attention I want the first two acts of The Perimeter to cultivate. Eli could review footage while the camera remains wide enough for us to inspect the monitor ourselves. Somewhere along a roof edge, a shape has enough resemblance to vegetation to survive a casual glance. The scene continues. If somebody notices, the discovery belongs to them. If nobody notices, the later revelation remains supported by what was already in the image. A second viewing should be able to confirm the film's honesty.
The method requires restraint and visual fairness. A predator hidden in a shot should have a place it could physically occupy and a plausible route out. Its presence must remain consistent with the later count of the animals. Noise, darkness and degraded video can make an image difficult to read, but endlessly making the crucial detail illegible would exhaust the effect. The strongest version gives us enough information to become uneasy, then leaves us to decide whether our unease is justified. Awada's attraction for this project lies in that willingness to let uncertainty persist.
Killmaze makes the same problem immediate when Eli discovers that the animal at the end of the lane was present before he recognised it. His torch has illuminated the relevant space. He has looked directly at it. He has still failed to distinguish a body from the geometry surrounding it. The subsequent knowledge is worse than a surprise appearance, because it forces him to reconsider what else he may already have inspected. The first two acts can prepare that recognition long before the third act makes it lethal.
The Spirit Matters More Than the Name
I would love to see the Jurassic Park name return. It still carries the memory of an enclosed place, human vulnerability and creatures whose behaviour unsettles the people responsible for them. A title can make an immediate promise about the kind of film an audience is being invited to see. The promise matters when the filmmaking keeps it. A familiar logo attached to another mechanically expanding adventure would leave the underlying problem untouched.
The spirit has priority. Call it Jurassic World if that is the useful commercial home for it. Set it within that era if the story benefits. I would happily accept both choices in a film that teaches us how a place works, makes us care about the people working there and allows the animals to defeat the understanding on which their safety depends. The World label does not prevent such a film from existing. Production choices determine whether the suspense has time to develop.
The supposedly unusual proposal is also close to the franchise's original dramatic form. A limited group of people discover that an administered environment has become dangerous in ways its operators cannot adequately describe. A contained survival film can sit alongside broader Jurassic adventures. Its distinction would be legible in the treatment of a corridor, a working shift and the aftermath of an injury. The studio would be allowing the franchise to accommodate a form it has already shown it can sustain.
Wonder belongs within that spirit too. An animal can be beautiful during an uneventful inspection, disturbing when its attention becomes difficult to interpret and terrifying once somebody has to pass close to it. The film should have room for those changes in perception. Keeping the creature in a continuous environment allows the audience's relationship to it to deepen. A new species is one possible source of discovery; a familiar animal behaving beyond the workers' expectations is another, with considerable dramatic value of its own.
A 1990s Setting With Room for Survival
My preference is 1992, at an InGen service annex separate from the visitor attraction on Nublar. The early 1990s belong naturally to the original story's technological confidence. Paper records, physical tapes and limited views on monitors could give the work a texture that matters to the plot. A technician might have to retrieve a recording from a particular room, walk to a breaker cabinet or trace a cable by hand. These actions make distance consequential. The period would earn its place through the decisions it makes necessary.
Jurassic Park: Survival already has a strong and distinct invitation. Its official premise returns to Isla Nublar the day after the 1993 film, following InGen scientist Dr Maya Joshi, who was unable to evacuate. The announced design emphasises evasion, distraction, stealth and resourcefulness, with animals described as having distinct and adaptive behaviours. That is one of the most encouraging propositions currently attached to the property. My enthusiasm concerns the announced premise, rather than a judgement on a finished game.[4]
The film should respect that territory. It has no need to repeat Maya's immediate aftermath, borrow her journey or make another return through the same famous locations. A separate logistics facility, an earlier incident and a workforce with its own responsibilities would already create substantial distance. If Universal considers the overlap in period or presentation unhelpful, I would move The Perimeter into the World era. Survival should have the opportunity to make its own return to 1993 feel special.
In that version, the annex could be an older InGen installation operating within the supply network of the functioning Jurassic World park. Its staff would maintain communications and electrical infrastructure while animal transfers passed through a facility that had accumulated incompatible repairs. Digital systems would provide more information, along with new opportunities to mistake an incomplete view for a comprehensive one. The story would have to establish its particular faults carefully. A modern date requires a convincing account of access, visibility and responsibility, all of which the premise can provide.
The opening sequence has therefore been written around facts that can survive either setting. Steel doors move on hinges. A blocked drain holds water. A radio can carry a distress call while rescue remains physically difficult. A camera shows only the direction in which it points. Choosing the era would change the equipment, records and corporate context in the first two acts. It would preserve the third act's dependence on technicians applying practical knowledge inside a space they have misunderstood. That is the film's essential inheritance.
The Perimeter
The proposed location is a fictional service island near Nublar, invented for this story. Its small annex handles freight, temporary animal transfers and a communications relay. Older research buildings have been connected to newer infrastructure. Containers provide storage, refrigeration and workshop space. Vegetation reaches into the yard from a boundary that somebody is always meaning to clear. The facility remains useful, and the work continues through a collection of minor accommodations that have gradually become routine.
Six adults remain for the late shift. Eli Ward maintains communications. Lucía Rojas works on the electrical systems and knows the annex's physical machinery. Mara is the site medic. Bell is a maintenance mechanic. Herrera handles animals. Vale supervises the facility and has certified the latest transfer record. These are the six people in Killmaze. Establishing their responsibilities makes the later losses intelligible: Bell's injury slows the crossing; Mara's attempt to help is part of who she has been all evening; Herrera's knowledge can protect the group without guaranteeing his safety; Vale's authority becomes a liability when he acts on an assumption.
The last dangerous animals are recorded as transferred. In fact, three raptors have remained in temporary accommodation whose repairs were signed off prematurely. An earlier containment failure has given them repeated access to parts of the yard before the night of the main crisis. That history matters. The paths along the roofs, the displaced vegetation and the animals' familiarity with the doors require time to develop. Their use of the annex should emerge as the consequence of an overlooked problem, supported by discrepancies the workers have been noticing for weeks.
The weather delays the staff crossing and complicates a damaged quay. A persistent communications fault becomes urgent once the local records cease to agree with the information reaching the main operation. The first unmistakable encounter injures Bell. Getting him to the clinic and stabilising him gives the group a purpose beyond announcing that the animals are loose. Eli and Lucía then have to restore an independent distress signal and make a route to the maintenance building possible. Their success brings all six together, still alive, at the point where the boat first answers them.
The plan has worked far enough to create relief. That relief is necessary. The audience should believe in the rescue, see the light and understand why the group moves towards it. The yard then exposes the extent of the error that their technical success has left unresolved. A transmitter can function perfectly while the route between a human being and the person answering it remains a killing ground. The contrast arises from the equipment's actual purpose and limits, and the people are required to discover those limits while carrying a colleague.
Caleb McLaughlin as Eli Ward
Caleb McLaughlin is Eli, the communications technician whose perception holds Killmaze together. He is twenty-four, capable and pleased to have work that offers independence and a future. He can trace a fault quickly, and he enjoys the authority that comes from being useful. His access remains limited by a system he has been employed to maintain. When he notices that two records disagree, the institution gives him reasons to assume that somebody with a higher clearance understands the discrepancy. His growing difficulty is deciding when his own observation deserves more trust than that reassurance.
McLaughlin's work as Lucas Sinclair in Stranger Things makes him an appealing choice for that mixture of resolve and exposure.[5] Lucas's confidence can coexist with fear, affection and the effort of deciding what to do next. Eli needs a performer who can make listening active. A face held in a shot while somebody else examines a dark opening should carry calculation, irritation and an increasing wish to be somewhere else.
The escape gives McLaughlin specific physical tasks to play. Eli carries Bell, recognises his own handprint, remembers the report he submitted and cannot make himself leave the workshop handle alone. The injuries accumulate. After his fingers are crushed, he cannot suddenly grip a rope with the ease of an unhurt man. His technical understanding helps him see the route; Lucía has to help him complete it. A close shot fixed to his movement during the flight from Herrera could make the yard lurch around a face struggling to remain quiet. The camera would remain with a person trying to control his body, rather than converting the run into an abstract rush through scenery.
Eli should also be enjoyable company before the night changes him. He can complain about the long cable run, take mild offence when Lucía checks his diagram against the equipment and feel disproportionately proud when a difficult connection finally holds. Those qualities make the later recognitions his own. The distance he complained about becomes the distance Bell has to cross. The workshop he knows allows him to locate Mara by the objects she strikes. His competence supplies the exact knowledge through which he experiences the horror.
Sophie Wilde as Lucía Rojas
Sophie Wilde is Lucía, the electrical technician who recognises that the yard's practical arrangements have become more trustworthy than its official description. Her performance in Talk to Me gives my casting proposal a clear basis.[6] Fear remains entangled with the character's private needs and relationships. Lucía needs the same capacity to remain emotionally specific when her decisions have become urgent.
Her knowledge comes from repeated physical work. She knows which latch drops only when the panel is lifted. She has cleared the same drains often enough to be angry when they block again. She has crawled beneath the container to free the cable. She does not know the raptors' capabilities in advance. She notices faster because the place she has been repairing no longer behaves as it did a few hours earlier. Her competence consists of attention, memory and a willingness to revise the plan.
That distinction matters in Killmaze. Lucía catches Vale's sleeve, covers Eli's torch and understands why the workshop side exit might let them bypass the last lane. Later, she closes the door while Mara is inside. The film must allow Wilde to carry the cost of that action. Lucía can recognise what is happening and still be frightened enough that keeping her voice level requires effort. Getting Eli through the drain does not resolve what the two of them have heard. Raising two fingers on the boat should be one of her hardest moments, because the gesture makes the result final in front of people who expected six.
The relationship between the technicians would be the film's centre. Each has enough evidence of the other's competence to find their disagreements irritating. Their humour can come from that friction. Their reliance can develop through work, long before the story asks them to trust each other under a container. The film has no need to manufacture a romance to justify the attachment. By the time Lucía takes Eli's wrists in the drainage channel, the audience should understand the practical history behind the gesture and the person she is refusing to lose.
Two Acts to Learn the Yard
The first act should let the annex feel usable. Follow Eli carrying the reel, Mara taking supplies to the clinic and Bell moving the workshop grinder so a job can be finished. Let Lucía demonstrate the personnel door's awkward latch while somebody is talking about something else. Establish that an old reinforced maintenance bridge connects two roofs. Show the damaged quay and the clearance under the adjoining container during ordinary work. An audience can absorb geography through a task without being told that every detail will eventually matter.
The warnings need similarly ordinary contexts. A chain has come loose again. Someone hears three impacts while a conversation continues in the clinic. The roof drains contain cut vegetation that should not have been placed there. Eli checks a recording and accepts an explanation for a shape near a railing. A transfer entry has been completed in one system and remains unresolved in another. Each discrepancy is small enough for a tired worker to defer it. Taken together, they describe an environment being used in a way the staff have failed to recognise.
This is where Awada's particular judgement becomes essential to the proposal. The camera must make the information available without advertising its eventual purpose. Holding a shot a little longer than the dialogue requires can give us time to inspect a roof. Returning to a view can make a moved door feel wrong before we understand why. Sound can establish the resonance of an empty container while its source remains plausibly incidental. These choices would let the audience participate in reading the annex. The film can reward attention without requiring a checklist of clues.
The second act increases pressure while preserving the animals' uncertainty. The workers might see one raptor at a distance, find evidence of another route and suffer an encounter whose full arrangement remains obscured. Bell's injury changes the group's speed and decisions. A brief sighting carries more force if it answers one question and creates another. We should still be waiting for a sustained confrontation with the pack when the rescue call succeeds. The third act then gives the raptors the time and space the film has been preparing for them.
The roof vegetation requires particular care. Moss itself cannot make a heavy animal magically silent. The reinforced edges support its weight; wet litter softens individual contacts, and the animal learns which exposed surfaces produce noise. The drains and the returning material suggest repeated behaviour. Eli sees enough in the escape to revise his understanding, while the film leaves the full extent of the animals' intention uncertain. That is more convincing than a speech certifying that the pack has engineered every inch of the yard. These are Jurassic's fictional raptors, whose behaviour is being invented for a story, with no claim to settle the habits of real prehistoric animals.
An Earned Third Act in Shipping Containers
Killmaze should occupy a substantial passage of the film. The crossing needs time for an expectation to form, fail and be replaced by an increasingly limited alternative. The boat remains close enough to be heard. Its radio operator asks practical questions. Rain alters visibility. Container doors interrupt what should be direct lines of sight. The audience knows the workers are near the quay, which makes their difficulty more painful. The geography stays coherent even when the people lose their orientation.
The pack exploits what it can actually use. The doors are unsecured or defective. The animals can push a panel, move around a stack and cross above a passage. They have no need to operate a properly secured locking bar or anticipate every human decision. A sharp sound makes the people turn. An apparently open lane invites movement. One animal waits where the next frightened person is likely to look for safety. The danger comes from social predators adapting to a place and to repeated responses, with room for hesitation and error on both sides.
The red cable gives the maze a physical continuity. Eli laid it while thinking about a routine task, and it remains indifferent to the routes the doors now appear to offer. Its relationship to the ground helps Lucía recover a way out. There is an old labyrinth story inside this industrial arrangement, with something like Ariadne's thread running through the concrete channels. The association is useful because it grows from the work. Nobody has to mention a Minotaur while the people are trying to survive.
The deaths must change the scene. Bell's removal interrupts the physical arrangement through which the group has been moving. Herrera's loss takes away the person whose animal-handling experience gave them confidence. Vale goes towards a reflected light because he believes he has identified the exit. Mara reaches the workshop alive, and her loss forces the technicians into an action they will have to remember. The film should make their efforts to help comprehensible. An audience can accept a terrible decision more readily when it understands the distance, the available seconds and the obstacle preventing another attempt.
Sound carries much of the violence. A voice through a radio can become harder to locate than a visible body. A steel room can let Eli understand where Mara is by what falls around her. The restraint should allow the performances to dominate those passages. Four deaths in a sequence are a severe dramatic choice, and they require the first two acts to have given the people enough life. Each absence must belong to somebody the audience knows. The boat brings physical rescue for Eli and Lucía, followed by the task of explaining why the crew can see only two.
What Contemporary Horror Makes Possible
Kane Parsons's Backrooms provides a useful formal comparison. A24's official description begins with a doorway in a furniture showroom and a threatening network of interconnected rooms. The premise gives ordinary architecture an unsettling depth, encouraging the audience to examine an environment that exceeds the characters' understanding.[7] A Jurassic annex could provoke related attention through entirely physical means. A freight corridor, a roofline and the spaces between temporary buildings can become difficult to read because living animals have discovered uses for them that the staff have overlooked.
Curry Barker's Obsession offers a related production lesson. In a Focus Features interview, Barker discusses his preference for concentrating a story in a few locations, allowing attention to settle on character and the details of a place.[8] A kitchen gains value when an audience understands where a person could hide and what might give them away. A container yard can accumulate the same kind of knowledge. Returning to a location allows the filmmaking to develop a relationship with it, making later alterations legible and consequential.
Their commercial performance makes this conversation easier to have. The Numbers' consulted totals put Backrooms at approximately US$400 million worldwide and Obsession at approximately US$521 million; Box Office Mojo records somewhat different totals of roughly US$401 million and US$525 million.[9] These are theatrical grosses, not profits. They cannot establish what a Jurassic production would cost or earn. They do show that a concentrated horror experience can attract a large theatrical audience. My inference is that intensity and specificity can supply the scale of an event, provided the film creates an experience people want to recommend.
David Robert Mitchell's The End of Oak Street gives the dinosaur question a further contemporary context. Its official premise displaces a suburban neighbourhood into an unknown environment; the film's dinosaurs are also reflected in the BBFC's published content information.[10] Familiar human spaces can make prehistoric creatures feel unfamiliar again. Jurassic has its own strong basis for that proximity, because its animals occupy a world built by identifiable human decisions. The people in the annex have been employed to keep that world functioning. Their responsibilities make the collision unusually immediate.
Supporting Awada as a Feature Director
Giving Awada the film would require a production designed to support the transition. A feature involves actors, departments, schedules and obligations that differ from those of an independently made online series. An experienced producer and a strong feature writer could help turn his understanding of Jurassic into a completed screenplay and an achievable shoot. The studio's creature teams could give him physical interaction, lighting and animation beyond the resources of his fan work. The purpose of that collaboration would be to preserve the decisions that make his work distinctive while extending what he can accomplish.
The path has relevant precedents. Danny and Michael Philippou brought a background in RackaRacka to Talk to Me, whose South Australian production and subsequent A24 acquisition were documented by the South Australian Film Corporation.[11] Their command of bodily danger and relationships under pressure would also make them exciting Jurassic filmmakers. The recommendation I am making here remains specific to Awada. His sustained attention to the workings of this fictional institution is why I want him directing this particular film.
J A Bayona offers a precedent within the franchise. Fallen Kingdom's estate material understands how an animal moving through a bedroom or across a roof can make domestic architecture feel inadequate. The film is directed by Bayona and written by Derek Connolly and Colin Trevorrow, a division of responsibility worth preserving when discussing its results.[12] TheWrap reported on 2 October 2026 that Bayona was the frontrunner for the next World film following Edwards's departure. That report describes a candidate, and should not be treated as an announced appointment.[13] Whatever happens with that production, The Perimeter could have a distinct identity alongside it.
There is already public enthusiasm for giving Awada a larger opportunity. A discussion in r/JurassicPark calls for studio attention and better resources, with viewers responding to the tension and the relationship to the novel. The thread also contains disagreement about aspects of his production methods.[14] It is a collection of individual responses, not a representative audience survey. The useful point is the kind of work people are recognising. They see a Jurassic world in which a worker's observations matter, and they want that attention to survive the move to something larger.
That is why I would ask Universal to speak with him about the actual film he would make. Let him explain how he would stage an inspection, direct an actor's listening or keep an animal present in a shot without announcing it. Look at how he would develop the first two acts so the container yard becomes inevitable. Hiring him would have value when his judgement shaped the screenplay, the performances and the edit. The recommendation concerns authorship within a collaboration, with enough authority to protect the suspense through production.
What Survives the Night
The rescue should give Eli and Lucía time to exist after the chase. A crewman asks where Eli is hurt, and he cannot answer because he is waiting for Lucía to move. The pilot repeats the number given over the radio. Lucía raises two fingers. The film has spent its first acts teaching us what each person does, and now an ordinary question forces the survivors to account for the missing people. Let the boat remain with them long enough for the absence to be understood.
At first light they can still have a record. Eli's copied logs, Lucía's maintenance warnings and the sequence of requests for assistance establish that the danger was observable before it became a catastrophe. In the 1992 version, a later classification could close the annex and permit the park's readiness process to continue. In the World-era version, the report could pass into another process with similarly limited consequences. The characters' testimony remains true. The institution finds language that allows its larger project to proceed. That would give the story a completed survival arc and an uncomfortable consequence beyond the escape.
There should also be room for an animal encountered without immediate danger. A herbivore at dawn might allow Eli to feel astonishment after a night in which dinosaurs have meant terror. That moment would belong to Jurassic's wonder, now complicated by what the people have lived through. Humour can survive as well, though it may sound different between two workers who have lost four colleagues. The film's seriousness would come from allowing experience to change them.
A contained production would still need serious investment. Convincing creatures, interaction, rain, sound and readable night photography demand expertise. The advantage of returning to the same spaces is the opportunity to develop them thoroughly. Build a yard that actors can learn. Give the animators routes with real physical relationships. Let the sound team establish the difference between a foot on a reinforced edge and one on an unsupported panel. Protect the time in the edit for the audience to make discoveries. The expense should serve an encounter whose precision can be felt.
I would love the original film's thirty-fifth anniversary in 2028 to become the occasion for such a return, if a properly developed film could be ready. That is a wish for this proposal. The screenplay deserves the time the argument asks the finished film to take. A release date should follow a viable production, and the campaign should promise the experience the film has actually made. An early teaser could stay with a technician reviewing an uneventful recording until a detail along the roofline becomes difficult to ignore.
Universal, let Ali Awada direct it. Give Caleb McLaughlin's Eli and Sophie Wilde's Lucía enough ordinary life that we want to see them finish their shift. Spend the first two acts making the yard familiar and the raptors difficult to forget, even when we cannot find them in the frame. Then bring the rescue boat close enough for everybody to believe they are going home. My preference is still the early 1990s and the Jurassic Park name. A Jurassic World film that preserves this spirit would have my support. I want the fear, the patience and the terrible usefulness of an ordinary person's knowledge. Put those things in Awada's hands, and let the shipping-container sequence become the encounter the whole film has earned.
Sources and reporting
Research consulted on 31 October 2026. The proposed film, service island, characters, incidents and casting are original suggestions. Neither the proposed 1992 setting nor the alternative World era setting describes an announced production or established continuity. The story imagines the behaviour of Jurassic fiction's raptors. Recommendations and performance assessments express the author's views. No filmmaker or performer named is represented as having agreed to participate. The hidden-raptor recollection is identified separately in source 3.
[1] Michael Crichton official author site, Jurassic Park. Background on the novel and original film, including the author's account of its development. The discussion of institutional confidence and suspense is the author's critical reading.
[2] Ali Awada, creator profile on Patreon, and his published descriptions of Raptors Testing Fences and Raptor on the Loose. Primary sources for his Australian background, the unofficial project, its lapel-camera and VHS form, and its interests in captivity, mystery and horror. The assessment of his suitability to direct is a recommendation.
Creator profile | Raptors Testing Fences | Raptor on the Loose
[3] The reference to hidden background raptors is the author's recollection of Awada's comments, paraphrased without a verbatim quotation. Its exact wording and original location have not been independently verified. For further viewing, Muldoon's Log behind the scenes, Ali Awada interviewed by Swift3dge, is linked here; the interview link is not a timestamped verification of that specific recollection.
Awada interview with Swift3dge
[4] Jurassic Park Survival official project website. Primary source for the day-after setting, Dr Maya Joshi and the announced emphasis on evasion, distraction, stealth, resourcefulness and adaptive dinosaur behaviour. This article discusses the announced premise and design.
[5] Netflix Tudum, Caleb McLaughlin and Priah Ferguson of Stranger Things Are the Future, 30 June 2022, and Netflix's on-set interview retrospective. Primary context for McLaughlin's work as Lucas Sinclair. Eli Ward is an original proposed role.
Netflix Tudum profile | On-set interview retrospective
[6] A24, Talk to Me official film page. Primary cast and director credits. The discussion of Wilde's performance is the author's critical judgement; Lucía Rojas is an original proposed role.
[7] A24, Backrooms official film page. Primary source for Kane Parsons's directing credit and the furniture-showroom doorway and interconnected-room premise. The relationship to Jurassic's spatial suspense is an interpretation.
[8] Focus Features, Obsession's Filmmaker Takes Horror to the Next Scary Level, 15 May 2026. Interview with writer, director and editor Curry Barker, including his approach to a small number of locations, character, darkness and uncertainty.
[9] The Numbers and Box Office Mojo, Backrooms and Obsession, tallies consulted on 31 October 2026. The Numbers records US$400,093,512 and US$521,252,715 respectively; Box Office Mojo records US$400,624,375 and US$525,089,752. The article rounds these worldwide theatrical grosses and treats their implications as an inference, with no estimate of studio profit.
The Numbers Backrooms | Box Office Mojo Backrooms | The Numbers Obsession | Box Office Mojo Obsession
[10] Warner Bros Pictures, The End of Oak Street official website, and British Board of Film Classification release information. Primary sources for David Robert Mitchell's credit, the displaced-neighbourhood premise and dinosaur-related content.
Warner Bros official website | BBFC release information
[11] South Australian Film Corporation, A24 acquires SA made horror Talk To Me, 17 February 2023. Primary production-sector source for Danny and Michael Philippou's RackaRacka background, the South Australian production and the A24 acquisition.
[12] Amblin, Jurassic World Fallen Kingdom official film page. Primary source for J A Bayona's directing credit and the screenplay credits for Derek Connolly and Colin Trevorrow. Comments on the film's atmosphere are criticism.
[13] Umberto Gonzalez, TheWrap, Next Jurassic World Movie Eyes J A Bayona to Replace Gareth Edwards as Director, 2 October 2026. Reporting describes Bayona as a frontrunner following Edwards's departure. It is not cited as an official appointment.
[14] r/JurassicPark, Has anyone else checked out Ali Awada's YT channel. Individual fan responses include requests for studio attention, funding and collaborators, as well as criticism. This is cited as an example of discussion, without claiming representative support.
