Director Nia (Candyman 2021/The Marvels) DeCosta and writer Alex (Ex Machina) Garland's 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple is the latest chapter in Danny Boyle's mad mythology, hinging on what its previous part presented, which in my humble opinion, proved nothing short of outstanding. With this, Bone Temple has much to reach and rival, but by jingo, it respects the groundwork and hurls it even farther down the Romero/Dead-paved road, while insinuating a cultural perspective that should please those who despise a world gone out of whack. (Check the news, whether it be spun from right or left, and you'll get my drift.)
Alfie Williams' Spike continues his Come and See-spun, adolescent evolution, as Ralph Fiennes' Duran Duran-loving Dr. Ian Kelson comes upon his own enlightened journey, communing with Chi Lewis-Parry's head-snapping, in-search-of-peace Samson, but that doesn't mean everything ends up in a nice, shimmering bow. That's because Jack O'Connell's Sir Jimmy Crystal (derived from the renowned pedophile, Jimmy Savile), along with his eponymous band (aka the vicious Fingers), exceeds any of the "demonic" infected. The scenario creates a saturating menace that's at once A Clockwork Orange and Beneath the Planet of the Apes, as it peddles a delusional devotion that pushes criminality straight to the Satanic summit.
The setup also makes one realize that those who champion crime, those who root for rioters, looters and child molesters, don't deserve sympathy, any more than those very cretins they excuse and empower, and in Bone Temple, they sure as hell don't get any fuzzy rationalization. The sadistic self-entitled are painted as horrendous and irredeemable, because they are, with Sir Jimmy taking unswerving pride in his Negan/Lucille-like allusions.
The fable's virtuous, meanwhile, battle the sweeping carnage as well as they can, their fight symbolized by Kelson's bone monuments, a comprised emblem (a surrogate Old Glory, if one will, despite the aboriginal ambiance) that respects the righteous side of the apocalyptic coin, working as the unexpected antithesis to Beneath the Planet of the Apes' worshiped bomb. And to embellish this regal, bone-built temple, Hildur Guondattir's score works as a spacious-sky anthem, and Sean Bobbit's photography as its blood-stained plains of grain.
I suppose one could argue that the temple's pieces perform, in fact, as stationary knockoffs of Max Rockatansky and Snake Plissken (tough, world-wearing symbols, that is, to withstand the heartless elements), but then so do Kelson and Spike in their valiant but offbeat ways (as well as, to a lesser degree, Spike's ally, Erin Kellyman's conscientious "finger"). They believe in the need to survive, if only to instill order within the lawlessness (and in Kelson's case, with the promise of an infected cure, which ties to the tale's pragmatic-science-vs-evil-religion sub-motif). On that basis, Bone Temple might be as controversial as some critics have projected, which is only because they're the sorts who welcome invaders who devour the gentle and humble and would misconstrue the movie's views as wrong. If Bone Temple offends them, so be it.
If I may be so bold, Bone Temple is meant for those of my moral ilk. I appreciate that and hail it as one of the all-time great sequels, for it expounds a commentary on cultural chaos that should resonate in years to come, though only if we good guys maintain the upper hand.
Oh, and for those wondering if Cillian Murphy's Jim makes an appearance...ah, let's just say it's ordained, even if installed as a Nimoy, Search for Spock/"Unification," cliffhanger, but man, that little tease should go far in giving Chapter 5 its prerequisite blessing.
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