Top Gun: Maverick (2022) — Riley Cross Reviews

I’m gonna be real with you. When the news broke that the Hellcats were finally returning 36 years later, I rolled my eyes harder than I did when I had to rewind *Fatal Attraction* for the guy who complained it wouldn't play past the bathtub scene. I spent six years behind that counter watching franchises fall apart. Usually, when a studio greenlights a sequel this late, it feels like a cash grab wrapped in greasy burger box paper. But *Top Gun: Maverick*? It’s different.

This is the perfect choice for a specific kind of "Night In." You aren't looking for some low-budget indie drama where the dog dies or the subtitles are too small for you to read. You want adrenaline fuel, and you want it loud. It is best for a Tuesday when the couch is calling your name and you want to feel like you’re living fast without actually risking your life. I watched it wearing sweatpants—which I promise I wouldn't have dared to do at the theater—while drinking cheap wine. It gave me the same sweaty-palm rush.

Take a gander at the sequence where Mitchell is dumping a night’s worth of fuel out of his plane just to zoom past kites on the beach. You can practically hear the engine screaming "I am machine" from the comfort of your living room. When Rooster finally clears the static on the radio, it’s this tiny, quiet moment that carries more weight than the entire runtime of a lot of dramas. It’s the kind of film where you find yourself sitting there not checking your text messages once. It demands your attention, or at least it demands you keep your eyes wide open so you don't miss all the things blowing up in slow motion.

Bottom line: It’s testosterone, caffeine, and pure distraction, but don’t lie—you’re going to speed-walk through every single boring trailer just to get back to the "real" movie.