The main draw of is that they purportedly immerse us in a realm of wonder—a fantastical yet skillfully built universe that feels more authentic than our own. Avatar: Fire and Ash is the third Avatar film, and if you enjoyed the first two, you’re in for a treat, as this installment delivers plenty more of the same. More aerial combat, more reef inhabitants riding waves on the backs of smooth sea creatures, more white humans trying to colonize new planets after ruining their own, more connecting ponytails to cosmic energy sources, more ’90s craft-show necklaces. If you’ve been craving the world of the Na’vi—and lines like “The fire of hate is just the ash of grief” and “We do not feed on weakness!”—Avatar: Fire and Ash is made for you.

Fire and Ash continues where 2022’s left off. Or at least, that’s my impression—at its core, it feels like the same film with a vaguely different storyline. On the planet Pandora, Lo’ak (Britain Dalton) is grieving his brother, who died in the last movie. Lo’ak’s mother, Neytiri (Zoe Saldaña), is also grieving, understandably; she sits silently, in a dreamy haze, twisting a strand of beads. Jake (Sam Worthington) is also sad, but in a more resolute, masculine manner. Meanwhile, Jake and Neytiri’s adopted daughter, Kiri (Sigourney Weaver), recreates The Blue Lagoon with her possible love interest—Jake and Netytiri’s adopted son Spike (Jack Champion), the white teenager with locs who requires a special breathing device to live in Pandora’s air.

Elsewhere, betrayal is brewing: White humans plot to conquer Pandora, aided by a tough soldier and Jake’s sworn enemy, Colonel Miles Quaritch (Stephen Lang)—who also happens to be Spike’s birth father. A domineering general (Edie Falco) struts around giving orders. A kind scientist (Jemaine Clement) begs the white humans not to kill Pandora’s delicate, whale-like creatures. Halfway through the movie, a new villain emerges, and Fire and Ash briefly comes alive: Oona Chaplin’s smooth-talking yet vicious Varang is the warrior leader of the Na’vi Mangkwan clan (also known as the Ash People), and she casts a spell on Quaritch to make him obey her—similar to how Jill Saint John hypnotized Adam West into doing the Batusi after giving him spiked orange juice.

Avatar: Fire and Ash is a lengthy metaphor, you see—it conveys that white people, driven by greed, ruin everything. (Unfortunately, this is accurate.) Humans are destroying Earth. Our kids are the future’s hope. These are the core themes of the Avatar franchise, and they’ll likely be repeated in upcoming Avatar films (there are ), so if you haven’t fully gotten them yet, you’ll have plenty of opportunities later.

The Na’vi look identical to how they did before—slender blue bodies with no body fat, faces decorated with cute glittery freckles, and pointed ears that move expressively as they talk. Cameron, spending a fortune, has created a 3-hour-and-17-minute epic, ending with a complex battle scene that’s supposed to be unlike anything you’ve ever seen—but ultimately, it’s exactly what you’d anticipate. Cameron’s so-called cutting-edge technology results in images that feel oddly flat, both dull and shiny at once. Even three films in, some might still find the effect exciting. But if it puts you to sleep, you’re far from the only one.

When Cameron released the first Avatar in 2009, he marketed it as a groundbreaking new way to experience movies. Now, 15 years later, that ‘new’ way is outdated. Cameron has mastered the art of giving audiences a world of artificial wonder. He and his clearly aim to make viewers feel transported, but the overstuffed visual world they’ve created does the opposite. Avatar: Fire and Ash constantly reminds you you’re staring at a screen—especially as the third hour drags on. Cameron’s vision is no longer futuristic; it’s a trip down memory lane, a very costly case of déjà vu. Movie magic comes in many forms, but rarely is it this calculated—mixing up awe with boredom.