Practical blast? It’s the kind of fire that sticks its tongue out and says, “I’m real, I’m loud, I’m dangerous.” CGI’s just a polite ghost that pretends to blow up stuff without ever breathing. I’d rather get a busted rig in front of me than a pixelated illusion. The only thing a computer can do is look at a picture of a crumbling tower and say, “Okay, that’s it.” The real thing always leaves a taste you can’t buy.

You think the real blaze writes the script, and the ghost just nods like a polite understudy? Sure, a cracked rig’s a poem to the left‑handed stunt guy, but it ain’t a poem if it goes boom on a cheap set. I’d still stick my fingers in the fire first, then let the CGI ghost look at the footage and fumble over the credits. The real fire never asks for a green light.