Sonic the Hedgehog 3

The Speed of Grief

There’s a weird kind of whiplash in sitting in a multiplex full of candy-fueled children and realizing the movie on screen is, at heart, about grief that won’t let go. I did not expect *Sonic the Hedgehog 3* to put me in that headspace, yet here we are. Jeff Fowler comes back for the third round looking like he has finally realized these characters can only sprint in circles for so long before the story has to ask what they’re running from.



Visually, Fowler nudges the series away from the shiny suburban goofiness of the first film and toward something moodier. There are moments that brush against *Akira*—wet concrete, neon glow, those bike-slide echoes. More importantly, the camera pays attention not just to speed but to force. When Shadow, voiced by Keanu Reeves, comes out of his 50-year military stasis, the scene doesn’t arrive as triumphant comic-book release. It lands with weight. Reeves keeps the voice nearly pressed to the floor, all tired vengeance and hard edges, very much in the shadow of *John Wick*. He barely raises it. Set against Ben Schwartz’s pinball energy as Sonic, that stillness gives the digital spectacle something solid to push against.

Of course, a film about cartoon animals saving the planet can’t live inside that gloom forever, so Jim Carrey barrels in and changes the weather. Actually, he does it twice. Playing both Dr. Ivo Robotnik and Gerald Robotnik, Carrey uses the double role as a full-body experiment. Ivo moves in sharp little jerks, shoulders up, neck craning forward like he’s about to peck at someone. Gerald feels heavier and older, his whole frame sagging under history. The joke isn’t just in the voices. Carrey shifts posture, balance, and rhythm so completely that the family resemblance starts to feel weirdly convincing.



I’m not convinced the movie fully manages the balancing act. The cast list is crowded enough that the human characters, especially James Marsden’s Tom, often seem shoved to the edge of the frame. Every so often the movie pauses for live-action banter, and you can practically hear the energy leaking out of the room. Still, whenever it narrows back to Sonic, Tails, Knuckles, and Shadow, the thing snaps into place. *Variety*'s Owen Gleiberman astutely noted that the movie "gives hyperactivity a good name," and that feels right. The editing has the same overclocked attention span as the characters, swerving from Shadow’s memories of Maria straight into broad slapstick without even pretending the transition will be smooth.



Maybe that clash is what makes the movie feel oddly honest. Grief doesn’t move in one clean emotional line. Sometimes it’s frozen silence, sometimes it’s frantic motion that keeps you from thinking too hard. Fowler doesn’t sand either impulse down. He lets Shadow’s sorrow and Sonic’s optimism slam into each other and make sparks. For something built to sell toys and occupy kids for an afternoon, the film stumbles into a real insight: you can run as hard as you want, but the past still decides the tempo.