There’s a pool in London. A transparent one. Suspended between two skyscrapers.
People are swimming in it.
Willingly.
And I can only assume it’s because they were raised without Final Destination.
Because anyone born before 2000 knows better. We saw it all. Plate glass windows. Elevators. Tanning beds. Lasagne.
Everything was a weapon. Every object a silent assassin. Death had a schedule and you were late for it.
You couldn’t enter a log cabin without visualising one of the logs flying off the truck in slow motion and slicing through your windscreen. You couldn’t use a microwave without standing six feet away, just in case the door blew off.
I still inspect every kettle like it’s been tampered with by intelligence.
This wasn’t just a film franchise.
It was a personality trait.
A survival blueprint.
A paranoia manual disguised as horror.
And it turned an entire generation into walking risk assessment forms.
No, I don’t want the massage chair.
No, I won’t be using the sunbed.
Yes, I did just triple check the seatbelt.
No, I won’t stand under that glass chandelier.
Yes, I’m aware I sound unwell.
But this is what Final Destination did to us.
And now? Now we’ve got a generation cannonballing into a glass-bottomed sky pool like they’ve never seen a mid-budget horror franchise and a badly animated plane crash.
They don’t know fear. They weren’t forged in it. They weren’t thirteen years old, watching someone get skewered by a rogue fence post and thinking, “Yes, this feels like a reasonable depiction of adulthood.”
It’s character building.
So I’m glad Final Destination is making a comeback. Not because I want Gen Z traumatised (though it wouldn’t hurt to humble them a bit). But because I want them to experience the joy of never seeing the world the same way again.
A hairdryer? That’s a threat. A bottle of shampoo perched on a shelf? Potential death sentence. An escalator? Absolutely not.
I want them to know the thrill of watching something as mundane as a dentist’s waiting room become a chamber of doom. I want them to spend the rest of their lives whispering “Rube Goldberg” every time a breeze knocks over a houseplant.
It’s time they earned the right to be irrationally afraid of ceiling fans. It’s time they understood why every millennial walks into a room and instinctively checks for sharp corners, trip hazards, and flammable liquids.
So yes. Let the franchise return. Let the new wave feel the deep, illogical anxiety of knowing death has a plan and it starts with an errant coffee cup.
Let them learn to fear the pool. Even if it’s 35 floors up, transparent, and wildly Instagrammable.
We’ll be at the bar. Safely grounded. Watching from a distance.
Because we’ve seen the film. And we’re not falling for it twice.
Moey writes here. 
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