Pathfinder

In Marcus Nispel’s Pathfinder, a Viking kid, Ghost, gets scooped up by a Skræling tribe in tenth-century North America. Raised as their own but still hunting for that warrior badge, Ghost gets all tangled up with Starfire, the Pathfinder’s daughter. His only tie to his Viking roots? Dad’s trusty sword. But here comes the gut punch: a fresh batch of Viking raiders torch Ghost’s village, sparking a blood-soaked vendetta that drives the whole damn show.

Nispel’s version? It’s like he’s lost in translation. Swapping out the Lapps’ gritty saga against crossbow-toting invaders for a Hollywood brawl between Native Americans and Vikings? That’s trading depth for flash. The movie kicks off with a big legend spiel, but the characters? They’re paper-thin, man. No meat on those bones to carry that weight.

There are two wolves fighting in every man’s heart. One is love. The other is hate. Which one wins? The one you feed the most.

Pathfinder tries to amp up the thrills with jump scares, CGI blood splatters, and lines so cliché you'd think they came out of a fortune cookie. The Native American crew, wise but as flat as a pancake, drop wisdom nuggets like “two wolves fightin’ in every man’s heart” without a drop of real soul.

Karl Urban, our brooding hero from Lord of the Rings, tries to inject some guts into Ghost, but he’s caged in by a script that’s as shallow as a kiddie pool. It’s waste of his talent, as well as that of Clancy Brown’s.

Bottom line? Pathfinder ain’t cutting it as a historical epic or a balls-out thriller. It spins this yarn about an “untold legend” but winds up lost in clichés. It’s like aiming for gold and landing in a pile of fool’s gold—shiny but hollow as hell.