In 2017’s 47 Meters Down, two teenage lasses are caught in a broken shark cage at the title depth, surrounded by great whites and with only an hour’s worth of air. It wasn’t great cinema, but it got points for doing a lot with a tiny budget.
And it was apparently enough to enable the filmmaker to entice an investor in a sequel. Looks like he spent the money on elaborate sets rather than, say, scriptwriting or acting talent. The “47” in the title has no meaning, and gone is the innovative minimalism, suspense or any reason to spend time watching it. There’s not a single frame that isn’t predictable.
The increasingly absurd “Plot” has four interchangeable, bikini-clad teenage girls unwisely venturing into a submerged, shark-infested Mayan burial city (they’re all over the place you know), mostly screaming a lot and getting eaten.
These characters became so annoying that I started rooting for the sharks.