The heart of "Black Panther: Wakanda Forever," the sequel to the massively successful "Black Panther" and a tribute to the late Chadwick Boseman, is genuine, even if the film as a whole feels manufactured. It all starts with a funeral for King T'Challa, who died recently. Shuri (Letitia Wright) and Queen Ramonda (Angela Bassett) wear white as they follow the black coffin, which has a silver emblem of the Black Panther mask and the crossed arms of the Wakanda salute on top. Slow-motion tracking shots of dancers jubilantly dancing in memory of their fallen king contrast with their mournful procession winding through the kingdom. We cut to an earnest, emotional montage of Boseman as T'Challa after the coffin arrives at a clearing and ceremoniously rises to the sky. The solemn, aching stream of images quickly forms the "Marvel Studios" logo, announcing that this is still a Marvel film. And "Wakanda Forever" suffers as a result.


What was the secret ingredient in "Black Panther's" success? "Black Panther" existed just outside of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, much like the resplendent, secluded African nation of Wakanda. It mostly stood on its own without the crushing demands that every other film felt: The humor existed between the characters, not as random references to another property; the characters (with the exception of Andy Serkis as Ulysses Klaue) were specific to the story; and the concerns rarely drifted toward franchise building aspirations.


However, writer/director Ryan Coogler and co-writer Joe Robert Cole don't have the same amount of leeway with this melancholy sequel. Some limitations are beyond their control, such as Boseman's tragic death. Others see it as a surrender to assimilate into a movie-making machine.


The massive script is jam-packed with ideas and themes. Rather than fighting a common enemy (white colonists), two kingdoms led by people of color are pitted against each other (an idea that never works thematically), and the film must address the cultural pain that remains from the historical annihilation of Central and South America's Indigenous kingdoms. It also has to deal with a slew of other obligations, including establishing the Marvel TV series "Ironheart" (in which Dominique Thorne will star), acknowledging The Snap, mourning Boseman's death, and finding a new Black Panther. The MCU's blockbuster demands (that this must be a mainstream hit and usher in the next phase of the cinematic universe) and the weight of satiating Black folks who feel seen by the fantastical confirmation of Black regalism smooth out these competing interests no less. It's too much for a single film. And you get the impression that it should've been two.


"Wakanda Forever" fails at nearly every turn, beginning with its setup. Colonist countries, fearful of an African superpower, are scouring the globe from sea to sea for vibranium (the metallic ore that powers the African kingdom). Riri (Thorne, treated as a plucky afterthought) is a young scientist who plays a role in a search that leads mercenaries deep underwater, where they meet Namor/Kukulkan (a menacing and bold Tenoch Huerta), the king of Talokan, and his people, who are dissatisfied with the surface world. They intend to demolish it. Namor, with his ears pointed to the sky and his winged feet fluttering, later appears in Wakanda. He approaches a still mournful Ramonda and a bitter Shuri with a threat disguised as an alliance, water still dripping from his jade earrings and glimmering vibranium-pearl-gold necklace. Because of his appearance, Wakanda turns to Everett Ross (Martin Freeman), which leads to other cameos and subplots that weigh down the entire film with franchise expectations.


What makes "Black Panther: Wakanda Forever" so important is how Coogler emphasizes righteous rage. Ramonda's first major scene involves her chastising the United Nations for expecting her to share vibranium with the world while attempting to steal it from her country. Bassett acts in a sequence in which her voice booms, her gaze is fixed and unforgiving, and the venom is felt. Shuri, who has buried herself in her lab, developing lethal weapons, feels even worse. She wishes to witness the world's destruction. Their shared rage drives them to make rash decisions, which escalates tensions with Namor, who is desperate to avenge his mother and ancestors. The film attempts to position the trio as different stages of grief, but in order to bring viewers up to speed on Namor's atrocities, it becomes slow and overblown.


Maybe there was a way to connect these arcs somewhere. However, this would necessitate better visual storytelling than the film provides. Far too often, the dialogue remains on the surface, either through reams of exposition, externalizing exactly what's on the character's mind, or attempting to meld the actors' real-life loss with that of the characters. The latter certainly allows these actors to process their pain on screen, but when did filmmakers forget how to show without telling? Why are modern blockbusters so obsessed with holding the audience's hand and providing minute details? "Why are you telling me all of this?" Shuri asks at one point after Namor explains his entire backstory. It feels like a note from Coogler to himself.


The flaws in the dialogue and story, as well as how frequently "Black Panther: Wakanda Forever" bows to IP-driven needs, would be easier to swallow if the visual components weren't so shaky. The jittery fight sequences are too difficult to follow: with each cut by editors Michael P. Shawver, Kelley Dixon, and Jennifer Lame, inelegant compositions blur into an incomprehensible sludge. Although there were projection issues during my screening of the film, I won't completely dismiss the all-too-dark lighting, but the actual framing by cinematographer Autumn Durald Arkapaw, working with the film's copious visual effects, lacks a sense of space. Scenes from Wakanda's everyday life—Black people shopping, communities laughing and enjoying each other's company—that once made the viewer happy now feel artificial. The vast landscapes of the country, which were once magnificent, are now murky backgrounds. When we see Talokan and its massive Mayan architecture and decorative wall paintings, we feel a little bit of that awe again. But, like "Black Panther," you wish Namor was given his film first, so that these scenes could breathe and we could become as integrated into this kingdom as we were in Wakanda.


Finally, through Shuri, this film attempts to foresee the future. When given good material, Wright is a talented actress who can emotionally carry a film. However, she is constantly working against the script in this situation. She fights through a cringe-worthy cameo, clunky jokes, and an ending that feels all too neat. An assured and charismatic Winston Duke as M'Baku is on hand to assist, as is a miscast Lupita Nyong'o as Nakia. Okoye, as played by Danai Gurira, provides tenacity. And newcomer Michaela Coel ("I May Destroy You") as Aneka, a quirky character who doesn't fit in with the rest of the cast, is there for comic relief... I guess? In any case, these actors' collective front isn't enough to stem the tide of a film that relies on shouting matches and broad visual and political metaphors that have been reduced to their uncomplicated essence rather than their complex truths (much like Rihanna's turgid soundtrack offering "Lift Me Up").


There is a major sea battle, new, ropey gadgets are used, and loose ends are inarticulately tied. Another montage honoring Boseman appears, and while the film is a shambles, you're relieved that it starts and ends on the right foot. Until the saccharine post-credits scene. I have no idea what Coogler was thinking. He bore more responsibility for this film than any other filmmaker. But when this scene happened, I groaned aloud at what amounted to a weepy, treacherous moment that was entirely unnecessary, emotionally manipulative, and partially unearned. It's one of many instances in which "Black Panther: Wakanda Forever" has the right heart but is in the wrong mindset and the wrong place—at the center of a fabricated cinematic universe—to mourn on its own terms.