Tron: Ares - Digital Disappointment
In a franchise that's long promised to bridge the gap between humanity and the machine, Tron: Ares arrives like a glitchy light cycle careening toward a wall—visually dazzling, sonically electrifying, but ultimately crashing into a void of narrative emptiness. Directed by Joachim Rønning and penned by Jesse Wigutow, this third installment in the Tron saga beams us back into a world of corporate intrigue and digital frontiers, where Encom (the tech giant from the original 1982 film) clashes with rival Dillinger Systems over the perils and potentials of artificial intelligence. Programs from the Grid are zapped into the real world, exploring timely themes of what it means to be human amid A.I. overreach. Yet, for all its promise as a sequel to Tron: Legacy (2010), Ares squanders its potential, delivering a film that's as shallow as a derezzed subroutine.
Let's start with the highs, because there ARE some—and they're the kind that make you wish the rest of the movie could keep up. The visuals are nothing short of spectacular, a neon-soaked fever dream that updates the techno-industrialist aesthetic of its predecessors with eye-popping effects and sleek, night-drenched action sequences. Light cycles scream across the screen in bursts of electric blue and crimson, while disc battles feel like balletic explosions of code made manifest. It's a feast for the eyes, evoking the low-fi charm of the original *Tron* while pushing into high-octane futurism that demands to be seen in IMAX 3D. If you're a fan of the franchise's signature glow, this is your candy store.
And then there's the sound—oh, the sound. With Nine Inch Nails' Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross (who also serve as executive producers) helming the score, *Ares* pulses with an audibly nostalgic heartbeat that callbacks to Daft Punk's iconic Legacy soundtrack. The synth-heavy tracks throb with industrial menace and euphoric highs, layering in fun nods to *Tron* lore that had this reviewer grinning despite myself. Moments of pure sonic immersion make you feel the Grid's hum in your bones, a reminder of why we fell for this world in the first place.
But here's where the disc stops spinning: the script and plot are a flimsy house of cards built on quicksand. What begins as an intriguing setup—corporate rivalries, A.I. entities like the enigmatic Ares grappling with human frailties like love and mortality—quickly devolves into a labyrinth of convoluted logic holes. Programs can only survive 29 minutes in our world before disintegrating? An "army" limited to a handful of beamed-in bots? It's as if the writers hauled a set of teaspoons to a shooting range, expecting them to compete with light rifles. The story prioritizes spectacle over sense, dismissing coherence in favor of neon flash, leaving the narrative feeling lazy and underdeveloped. Worse, it all but ignores the burning questions left dangling from Legacy: What became of Sam Flynn (Garrett Hedlund) after he reclaimed Encom? Where's Quorra (Olivia Wilde), the last ISO, in this evolving digital ecosystem? And the titular Tron program itself? Poof—vanished without a trace, as if the film is ashamed of its own heritage. This isn't evolution; it's erasure, a shallow sidestep that robs the saga of continuity and depth.
Compounding the frustration is the subpar, bland acting, particularly from lead Jared Leto as Ares, the rogue A.I. program thrust into human form. Leto, often a polarizing force, here registers charisma levels so undetectable it's like watching a hologram flicker out. His performance is all brooding intensity and zero spark, a far cry from Jeff Bridges' wry Alan Bradley or even his own turn in Legacy's Clu. He sleepwalks through the role, leaving emotional beats—supposedly about fallibility and creativity—to hang limp. The supporting cast fares better: Greta Lee brings sharp wit to Encom CEO Eve Kim, Evan Peters chews scenery as the petulant villain Julian Dillinger with a mix of evil glee and boyish insecurity, and Jodie Turner-Smith adds gravitas as Athena. But they're wasted in a script that strands them in service of plot contrivances, their talents flickering like unused RAM.
Tron: Ares had ample promise: a franchise ripe for exploring modern AI anxieties, a stacked creative team, and a visual language that has influenced sci-fi for decades. Instead, it feels like a wasted opportunity—a glossy shell that squanders its music contributors' genius, its ensemble's potential, and, frankly, two hours of our time. In a series born from the prescient warning that "the computers and the machines will start thinking, and the people will stop," this entry stops thinking altogether. Fans might catch a thrill from the callbacks and spectacle, but for everyone else, it's a reminder that not every Grid needs crossing. Skip it, or watch with lights off and volume up— at least the aesthetics won't let you down.
TRON: ARES IN THEATERS NOW
