Let’s start with the incantations that work. Bier, known for her intense emotional dramas like The Undoing, brings a genuine visual gravitas to the proceedings. The cinematography is lush, trading the original’s cozy autumnal glow for a more atmospheric, moonlit gothic palette. The magic itself is handled with more weight and consequence - rituals feel ancient, and the film’s central metaphor of female resilience is treated with sober respect. Bullock and Kidman slip back into their roles like they never left. Bullock’s Sally is more brittle, worn down by grief and vigilance, while Kidman’s Gillian is still a shimmering beacon of appetizing chaos, but with a new layer of tragic practicality. Their scenes together crackle with an earned intimacy that no amount of green CGI can replicate.
The problem arrives with the film’s fractured focus. The inclusion of King and Williams is a smart way to expand the lore, but the screenplay gives them precious little to work with. King has some nice moments of rebellious exasperation, but Williams is relegated to the "smart one who reads old books" role, sighing exposition at the audience. Xolo Maridueña is charming, but his character is so saintly that he feels less like a love interest and more like a perfectly supportive hallucination. Lee Pace, meanwhile, is aggressively miscast; his theatrical eeriness clashes with the film’s otherwise grounded tone.
Where the sequel truly stumbles is in its pacing. At 130 minutes, it drags in the second act, fumbling through a subplot involving a supposed antidote to the curse that feels like a fetch quest from a lesser fantasy franchise. The runtime bloats what should be a tight, 100-minute emotional thriller. And while Bier handles the drama well, she struggles with the comedy. The quirkiness that defined the first film - the midnight margaritas, the zombie boyfriend, the aunts’ macabre gardening - is mostly absent. Here, the humor feels forced, often deflating a scene’s tension rather than enriching it.
Then there’s the ending. Without spoiling, the resolution feels too neat, resolving a generational curse with a modern "therapy-session" logic that betrays the mythic quality of the story. It’s adult, it’s sane, but it lacks the wild, irresponsible joy that made the original’s finale so cathartic. As a result, Practical Magic 2 feels less like a spell and more like a clinical removal of the hex. It’s a competent, well-acted drama that forgets that the first film’s power wasn’t in the plot, but in the messy, imperfect, and defiant love between two fringe-dwelling witches.