Arcaneya

Category: Spirituality

  • How Can the Superhero Movies Instill the Idea of Smallness

    I stayed away from superhero movies for over a decade.
    Not because I hated them — I simply moved on.
    But now that I understand story structure, and life itself more deeply, I’ve come back — curious, observant, ready to see what I once missed.

    And as I watch Superman (2025), I can’t deny what I feel.
    Beneath the color, the humor, the heroism — there’s a quiet sensation.
    A whisper that says: You’re not as powerful as this world you’re watching.
    It’s subtle, almost hidden, but it’s there.
    And I tell it as it is, because truth lives in small impressions too.

    One might argue that if such an idea ever fell into the wrong hands —
    the idea that stories can shape how powerful we feel —
    then the power-hungry could use it deliberately.
    They could push tales of unreachable greatness,
    layered with spectacle and CGI,
    to keep the audience in awe,
    but quietly subdued.
    To make us feel small — not because we are,
    but because we might start believing it.

    And we see it already:
    Superhero fatigue spreading,
    yet the movies keep coming —
    each one louder, bigger, more inflated than the last.
    It’s as if, when meaning fades, they turn up the volume,
    hoping the noise will fill the silence.

    I say this because I know:
    There is as much light as darkness in this world.
    And the devil, too, has the mind of God —
    a cunning that can twist the beautiful into the binding.
    What begins as inspiration can, in the wrong hands, become conditioning.

    So whether it’s intentional or not —
    even if only one film is shaped that way —
    the point is not to accuse, but to awaken.
    To stay vigilant.
    To notice when a story plants a feeling of smallness within us —
    and to reject it.

    Because the truth is,
    we are not small.
    We never were.
    No screen can contain the power that lives quietly inside the human heart.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • She’s Out of My League (2010): A Realistic 1–10 Personal Rating System

    Inspired by the rom-com fantasy of She’s Out of My League, this scoring system takes the idea of “rating” someone beyond looks and superficial traits. Unlike the movie’s exaggerated 5 vs. 10 leagues, this scale focuses on real personality, health, confidence, and energy, while keeping a touch of humor. It’s also a handy reference for anyone who wants to get their act together, develop themselves, and climb higher on their personal scale.

    1 – Completely Unapproachable / Chaotic Energy
    Someone actively unpleasant or impossible to talk to. Conversations feel like running through molasses.
    Comedy note: “Like a cat video gone wrong—painful, but you can’t look away.”

    2 – Socially Clumsy / Distracting
    Tries to engage but fails spectacularly. Overshares, interrupts, or misreads every social cue.
    Comedy note: “Like someone who brought a kazoo to a dinner party—well-meaning, but why?”

    3 – Functional, But Boring
    Pleasant enough, but utterly unremarkable. Can hold a conversation but leaves no impression.
    Comedy note: “Like plain toast: reliable, but you’re not asking for seconds.”

    4 – Almost There / Some Charm
    Hints of personality or style, but inconsistent. Shows potential if they push themselves.
    Comedy note: “Like a warm-up act hinting at a headline show—you see the sparks, just not the fireworks yet.”

    5 – Decent / Approachable
    Solid baseline. Pleasant to be around, easy to talk to, socially functional.
    Comedy note: “Like a solid cup of coffee: dependable, enjoyable, and won’t make you regret waking up early.”

    6 – Pleasant to Talk To
    Conversation flows naturally, funny or interesting without trying too hard. Personality starts to shine.
    Comedy note: “Like a good playlist you can listen to on repeat—comfortable, familiar, and hard not to like.”

    7 – Healthy Body / Vitality
    Shows signs of good health and energy. Not necessarily a supermodel, but strong, active, and energetic.
    Comedy note: “Like spinach in your smoothie—good for you, and surprisingly impressive if you notice it.”

    8 – X-Factor / Magnetic Personality
    That special spark: charm, humor, wit, or something hard to define. People notice them in a room.
    Comedy note: “Like a magician at a kid’s party—can’t quite explain why you’re mesmerized, but you are.”

    9 – Confidence / Natural Poise
    Carries themselves well, comfortable in their own skin. Handles awkward situations with grace.
    Comedy note: “Like someone who walks into a meeting in pajamas and somehow makes it look like couture.”

    10 – Radiant Energy / Full Presence
    They light up the room, draw people in effortlessly, and leave a lasting impression. Looks, personality, and energy are all in sync.
    Comedy note: “Like a double rainbow during a perfect sunset—rare, unforgettable, and slightly intimidating.”

    Why This Scale Works

    • It’s grounded and non-superficial—looks matter, but so do personality, confidence, and energy.
    • It’s dynamic—scores can improve with effort: practicing social skills, improving health, and building confidence.
    • It’s practical—anyone looking to grow personally can use this as a guide to see where they might improve and aim for higher levels, not just for romantic pursuits but for life in general.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • The Fifth Element (1997): Diva Plavalaguna, Hidden Stones, and the Awakening Within

    Luc Besson’s The Fifth Element dazzles with its colors, humor, and chaos, but beneath the spectacle lies a deeply spiritual subtext. Central to this is Diva Plavalaguna, the ethereal opera singer who literally carries the four elemental stones within her body—a metaphor for the hidden energies within ourselves. These stones, corresponding to the classic elements—earth, water, fire, and air—align with the human chakra system, while Leeloo, the fifth element, embodies the crown chakra, the integration of all energy into spiritual awakening.

    The Body as a Sacred Vessel

    By hiding the stones within her, the Diva transforms her body into a sacred repository of cosmic energy. Each stone resonates with a chakra:

    • Earth (Root Chakra): Grounding, stability, connection to life’s physical realities.
    • Water (Sacral Chakra): Emotions, creativity, and the flow of life.
    • Fire (Solar Plexus Chakra): Willpower, transformation, and inner strength.
    • Air (Heart/Throat Chakra): Compassion, communication, and higher consciousness.

    Leeloo, as the fifth element, is the crown—the ultimate spiritual integration of these energies, unlocking enlightenment and cosmic harmony. The ascension in short.

    Dreams as Portals to Inner Reality

    In the beginning of the movie, when we’re introduced to the evil, Korben suddenly awakens suggesting the “dream that wasn’t” trope. While in many films this trope can disorient viewers, here it is deeply symbolic: the dreams reveal that evil is not merely an external threat but a reflection of the darkness within us. These visions function as a spiritual mirror, a prompt to confront internal chaos and imbalance.

    The narrative suggests that only by recognizing and balancing these inner elements—the chakras represented by the stones—can one “open the crown” and abolish evil. Korben’s awakening mirrors the moment of inner clarity: the hero must face latent shadows and harmonize his own energies before he can act as an instrument of cosmic restoration.

    Hidden Potential and Spiritual Revelation

    The Diva’s role is crucial: she safeguards the stones until the moment when humanity is ready to awaken and ascend, illustrating the principle that true power and divine insight are often latent within. Her final act of revealing the stones symbolizes the transfer of wisdom and the selfless guidance needed for awakening, much like a spiritual teacher who opens the path without claiming it for themselves.

    Harmony Through Alignment

    When Leeloo finally unites with the stones, the universe aligns—the energies of the elements, once hidden and protected, become a force to banish darkness. The film subtly portrays that spiritual balance is not abstract but actionable: confronting the evil within, aligning the energies (chakras), and opening the crown transforms chaos into harmony.

    In the end, The Fifth Element is more than a flamboyant space opera. It is a meditation on inner awakening, the latent power within the human form, and the eternal interplay of light and darkness—reminding us that true salvation emerges when we harmonize the elements inside ourselves.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Cop Out (2010): Finding a Core in Chaos

    Cop Out, the 2010 buddy-cop action-comedy starring Bruce Willis and Tracy Morgan, is a film often cited as a significant missed opportunity. Despite its seemingly promising premise and the star power of its leads, it landed with a resounding thud among critics and audiences alike. The common refrain points to fundamental flaws: problems with pacing that make scenes drag or feel disjointed, a glaring lack of genuine chemistry between its two protagonists, and a central plot that strains believability to the breaking point. It’s a movie that feels like it struggled to find its footing, often leaving viewers detached from the action and humor. Indeed, its challenges run so deep that attempting a full architectural overhaul of its entire narrative might feel less like a rescue mission and more like building a new film from the ground up.

    However, even in films with numerous pitfalls, a single, carefully considered adjustment to the foundation can sometimes ripple outwards, creating a much stronger framework for the rest of the story to fall into place. For Cop Out, that pivotal change lies in a bolder, clearer establishment of the dynamic between its two central characters, Jimmy Monroe and Paul Hodges.

    The Contrast That Could Have Been

    The film, as released, missed a crucial opportunity to truly leverage the inherent comedic and dramatic potential of its stars. Instead of a muddled blend, a more deliberate contrast between Jimmy’s inherent calmness and collectiveness and Paul’s hectic, chaotic energy would provide a richer foundation. Imagine Jimmy as the seasoned, unflappable anchor, the embodiment of a strong sense of self and grounded personal power—what some might refer to as a robust solar plexus chakra. This is an archetype Bruce Willis has powerfully embodied throughout his career: the stand-up man, resilient and in control, not easily caught off guard by trivial misfortunes or petty criminals.

    It is precisely this understanding of character that highlights a key “weirdness” in the original film: the initial scene where Jimmy, a hardened detective, is so easily tased and robbed of his valuable baseball card. This moment feels jarring and fundamentally out of sync with the established persona of a character like Jimmy, undermining his believability from the outset. A man with his presumed energetic strength wouldn’t typically find himself in such a casually humiliating and disempowering situation, particularly at the hands of a low-level thief.

    A New Origin for the Chaos

    The architectural solution to this foundational flaw is elegant in its simplicity: entrust Paul with the baseball card in that fateful moment.

    Picture this: Jimmy, needing the funds for his daughter’s wedding, would entrust his prized, perhaps personally significant, baseball card to Paul for a minute while the pawn chop clerk would be getting his expert. It’s in Paul’s hands, amidst his signature hectic energy and perhaps a moment of distraction or overzealousness, that the chaos would erupt. Paul, the well-meaning but often clumsy partner, would be the one to get tased and robbed, inadvertently losing Jimmy’s priceless item.

    This single alteration immediately injects profound motivation and a potent dynamic into the narrative. The rest of the story would then be relentlessly driven by Paul’s overwhelming guilt and his desperate, relentless need for redemption. His character would transform from a source of generic comedic relief into a man on a mission, fueled by a genuine desire to make amends for screwing up his best friend’s life-changing asset.

    This guilt would manifest as Paul being overly apologetic at every turn, his sincere remorse bubbling beneath his chaotic attempts to help. He would become overly ambitious and reckless in his pursuit of the stolen card, constantly complicating matters for the calm and collected Jimmy. This new dynamic would provide endless opportunities for character-driven comedy, as Jimmy’s unflappable nature is continually tested by Paul’s frantic, well-intentioned blunders. Their interactions would cease to be disjointed and would instead be bound by this shared, high-stakes objective, finally creating the genuine chemistry the film sorely needed. The plot would naturally progress through Paul’s attempts to fix his mistake, leading to increasingly complicated scenarios, and setting the stage for an eventual reckoning where he might finally have to calm down and channel his energy effectively to save the day, earning his redemption not through frantic action, but through focused intention.

    This simple shift, from Jimmy as the immediate victim to Paul as the catalyst for their shared plight, creates a far more believable, engaging, and emotionally resonant foundation for Cop Out, allowing its narrative pieces to fall into place with a purpose that was sorely missing.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Wish (2023): Polishing the outline: Why Dreams Should Break — and How Disney’s Story Could Shine Even More

    Disney’s Wish arrived with a dazzling premise: a kingdom where people surrender their deepest dreams to a benevolent ruler, trusting he’ll grant them one by one. The opening minutes feel like pure magic, a reminder of why Disney once defined the animated musical. But as the story unfolds, the enchantment starts to fracture. The film quickly loses its sense of mystery and tension, trading wonder for predictability, and by the finale, its emotional core feels as hollow as the glowing orbs that hold its wishes.

    At the heart of the problem is how the story chooses to tell its tale. Magnifico, the king, is introduced as a near-instant villain, his charm stripped away within minutes. Rather than leaving Asha — and the audience — uncertain about his true motives, the movie paints him as controlling and sinister from the outset, making her rebellion an obvious path instead of a difficult choice. The wish system, too, is left frustratingly shallow. Why do people forget their wishes once they’re surrendered? Are these dreams dangerous? Or is Magnifico using them for something more sinister? The movie barely touches these questions, leaving its central idea weightless. And while Star is adorable, it’s a sparkly mascot without real narrative weight, more merchandise than muse.

    A more definitive Outline

    What Wish needed was to lean into the very fear that drives its world — the fear of heartbreak, of failure, of dreams shattering. The people of Rosas don’t just hand over their wishes because the King asks; they give them up because they’re terrified of what it would mean to chase them and fail. In this version of the story, surrendering a wish explicitly means surrendering a piece of your soul — the daring, vulnerable part that hopes. That’s why they forget their dreams: they’ve traded away the very part of themselves that remembers how to long for something. Magnifico, calm and persuasive rather than overtly sinister, presents himself as a protector: “I guard these dreams so your souls remain unbroken.” It’s a compelling lie because he believes it himself. The perfect kingdom exists not because of his benevolence, but because its people are hollowed-out, their ambition and risk locked away along with their orbs — fragments Magnifico quietly feeds upon to sustain his power and the kingdom’s false harmony.

    Asha’s arc transforms when rooted in this deeper idea. On her eighteenth birthday, she still goes forward with surrendering her wish — a dream tied to her beloved grandfather — but carries a flicker of unease from Magnifico’s carefully measured words. When Star arrives, it’s not just to sprinkle charm over the plot, but to show her visions of what dreams truly are: messy, painful, and transformative. Asha sees that failure, heartbreak, and even shattered wishes can lead people to grow stronger, to find new paths, to discover parts of themselves they never would have without taking the risk. She realizes that the so-called “dangerous” wishes Magnifico locks away are the ones that matter most — not because they threaten the kingdom, but because they make life worth living. They are the catalysts for growth and understanding.

    In the climax, this theme comes to a head when Asha must sacrifice her own wish to stop Magnifico, willingly letting it shatter to free everyone else’s. She feels the heartbreak of losing her dream, but rises from it, renewed and determined to chase life without waiting for it to be handed to her. As the freed wishes return to the people, the kingdom awakens from its complacency, remembering their ambitions, their risks, and their power to dream again. The final message is clear: a wish isn’t something to lock away or wait for someone else to grant. It’s something to chase, even if it breaks you — because rising from a broken dream can lead you somewhere greater.

    This approach doesn’t discard what worked about Wish. The magical premise remains, as do the songs, the charm, and the wonder. But by shifting the tone from predictable hero-versus-villain toward a story about fear, risk, and resilience, Disney’s 100th anniversary feature could have been more than a nostalgic collage. It could have stood alongside the true Disney classics, reminding audiences that the beauty of a wish isn’t in its guarantee — it’s in the courage to hold onto it, even when it breaks.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Aloha (2015): A Missed Connection with Story and Spirit — and How It Could Have Soared

    There’s a certain charm baked into Aloha (2015) that suggests it could have been something special. The film is directed by Cameron Crowe, whose earlier works (Almost Famous, Jerry Maguire) managed to blend warmth, introspection, and emotional authenticity in a way that few filmmakers pull off. Aloha also boasts a cast overflowing with talent: Bradley Cooper, Rachel McAdams, Emma Stone, Bill Murray, and Alec Baldwin, each bringing more than enough charisma to command a compelling drama.

    But somehow, Aloha misses the mark entirely. It meanders between romantic entanglements, military conspiracies, and spiritual themes without ever landing solidly on any of them. Characters change direction without clear motivation. Conflicts are introduced with fanfare and then resolved with a shrug. And worst of all, the emotional payoff is diluted by a plot that never earns its big moments. The result is a confusing narrative that feels like several half-finished ideas stitched together with voiceovers and awkward exposition.

    The film centers on Brian Gilcrest (Cooper), a disgraced military contractor returning to Hawaii for a new mission: to help facilitate the launch of a private satellite under the guise of goodwill and space cooperation. He’s paired with an energetic Air Force pilot, Allison Ng (Stone), and quickly finds himself caught in a love triangle with his ex, Tracy (McAdams). The central conflict involves a morally questionable satellite payload, a half-hearted nod to Hawaiian spirituality, and Brian’s last-minute attempt at redemption through hacking and sabotage.

    Unfortunately, none of this sticks. The satellite storyline feels strangely disconnected from the setting. The Hawaiian culture is invoked but not meaningfully engaged. The relationships have potential but are resolved with emotional shortcuts. And Brian’s final gesture — hacking the launch to stop a weaponized satellite — feels less like character growth and more like narrative convenience. It’s a shame, because the ingredients for a powerful story were all there. They just needed direction, structure, and thematic coherence.

    So what if Aloha had gone in a different direction? What if instead of a vague tech thriller set in Hawaii, the story was fundamentally about Hawaii — about its land, its people, and the tension between exploitation and harmony?

    The Alternate Outline

    In a reimagined outline, Brian still returns to the islands under the shadow of past failures. But instead of facilitating a satellite launch, he’s now contracted to help negotiate the release of sacred mountain land for a new facility: a supposed weather research station that is in fact part of a secret government weather manipulation program, aimed at controlling global climate patterns for strategic gain.

    This premise immediately roots the story in the location. Hawaii, with its deep spiritual connection to nature, becomes not just a backdrop but a character — one in conflict with Brian’s mission. The contrast is clear and resonant: locals working with nature vs. outsiders trying to control it.

    Brian, eager to prove himself and seduced by money and prestige, brags about his return to Tracy, hoping to rekindle something from their past. Allison, meanwhile, is assigned to accompany him and gradually softens toward him as she believes he’s trying to do the right thing. But Tracy uncovers the true purpose of the project and confronts Brian, forcing him to face what he’s really doing.

    In this version, when Brian tries to sabotage the weather program — not by clever hacking but by acting on a gut instinct to do something “good” — it backfires. He’s caught, scorned by Allison, and accused of recklessness motivated more by old feelings than by moral clarity. This becomes the real low point, not a triumphant “save the day” moment, but a reckoning.

    Then something unexpected happens. The locals, seeing that negotiation has failed, hold a ritual to appeal to nature itself — a storm that they believe can disrupt the unnatural machinery being erected on the mountain. Brian, Allison, and even the audience are skeptical. But the storm does come. It batters the facility, though the project presses on.

    Only later, after Brian has let go of trying to win anyone back and finally accepts responsibility, does nature deliver its final judgment: a massive landslide, triggered by the soaked earth, destroys the facility completely. The sabotage Brian failed to carry out is completed by the land itself. It’s poetic, earned, and deeply in tune with the film’s new themes.

    In this revised structure, every element becomes clearer. Brian’s arc shifts from arrogant contractor to humbled man seeking real redemption. The love triangle becomes more than romantic tension — it’s about values: loyalty, truth, and personal growth. Hawaii isn’t set dressing, it’s the moral center of the story. The climax isn’t about a last-minute code entered into a laptop, but about the larger forces — spiritual and environmental — that no amount of technology can conquer.

    Aloha could have been a story about listening — to people, to the land, to one’s own conscience. This version makes that journey visible, emotional, and real.

    If anything, Aloha reminds us of this enduring lesson in storytelling: when you don’t earn the stakes, the audience doesn’t feel the resolution. But when you root conflict in character and theme, even nature can become a protagonist.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Villain’s Wet Dream — A Bioweapon That Wipes Us All Out

    It’s a trope as old as the spy thriller: the villain develops a terrifying bioweapon designed to wipe out half—or all—of humanity. But let’s be real: this idea is less a plausible threat and more a villain’s fantasy. In reality, the creation and use of such a weapon is riddled with impossible challenges, paralyzing fears, and metaphysical complications that movies rarely explore.

    1. Too Dumb to Build It

    First off, creating a bioweapon capable of mass destruction isn’t just evil—it’s insanely complex. Most villains, and their minions, lack the scientific brains and resources to invent such a weapon. More often than not, they’re stealing or hijacking something that already exists. This isn’t just a storytelling shortcut; it’s a reflection of reality. Crafting deadly pathogens takes cutting-edge labs, top-tier experts, and years of work—not exactly the stuff of quick villainous plots.

    2. Biology Is Neutral — It’s the Spirit That Powers It

    But even beyond science, there’s a deeper truth, often overlooked outside spiritual circles: biology itself is neutral. A virus, bacteria, or toxin is just matter—neither good nor evil. What gives it destructive power is the energy, intent, or spirit behind it. Without that metaphysical force animating it, a bioweapon is just a lifeless tool. This spiritual perspective challenges the usual “cold, calculated” villain narrative and suggests that true menace comes from the villain’s inner darkness, not their lab equipment.

    3. The Metaphysical Size of the Villain

    Which brings us to the heart of the matter: how big is the villain metaphysically? The real threat isn’t the weapon itself, but the magnitude of the villain’s dark energy and willpower. The more powerful their spirit—the more intense their ego and destructive intent—the more dangerous they truly are. A bioweapon is just an extension of that force, not the source.

    4. Fear of Self-Destruction

    Finally, even if a villain somehow managed to create such a devastating bioweapon, would they actually use it? Negativity, in all its forms, is notoriously afraid of dying or losing control. Using a weapon that wipes out half the world risks triggering uncontrollable chaos—and potentially the villain’s own end. This fear of self-destruction restrains many villains, adding a layer of complexity missing in most movies, where the villain just presses the big red button without hesitation.

    In sum, the doomsday bioweapon is less a credible threat and more a villain’s fantasy—an exciting but fundamentally flawed plot device. Understanding these layers can help storytellers create more believable antagonists and richer narratives, while reminding audiences to take these high-stakes threats with a grain of salt.

    Ira

  • Understanding the Villains from the Concept That All Is One

    Let’s face it: villains are an essential part of every story. When they make their entrance, we often instinctively feel that their presence is justified—that they belong within the narrative’s world and purpose. Yet, all too often, villains come across as out of place or forced, lacking clear motivations that resonate with the audience. This disconnect can make the story feel unbalanced or unconvincing.

    To craft compelling villains—and to avoid these common pitfalls—we need to understand them on a deeper level. One powerful way to do this is through the concept of oneness, the idea that everything is interconnected. Embracing this perspective can reveal the intricate reasons behind a villain’s appearance and help us see them not as isolated antagonists, but as vital, integrated parts of the story’s whole.

    Mind creates

    First of all, we must remember the creative power of our minds. Our thoughts serve as the blueprint upon which our personal universe is built. When we replace an old belief with a new thought, we change the underlying energy—and our physical reality can do nothing but gradually, yet surely, manifest this new blueprint.

    Others are part of us

    Because they are part of our mind, our thoughts, and the blueprint—consequently our reality—they are nothing but part of us. We can freely choose what our thoughts about everybody else will be, and consequently watch them getting closer to or further away from us.

    If someone is affraid of something, we want them gone

    Because we are one with them, we feel their fear suffocating our soul. Naturally, we want to push them away, and if that fear doesn’t change, we desire to see them gone forever.

    People who are afraid often wither away, as the universe naturally lets go of them. The only way for anyone to truly flourish is through the opposite of fear—love.

    The same goes for selfishness

    So fear is, in a way, our reality’s integral choice to disconnect. But the same idea applies to selfishness, which is a far more deliberate decision.

    When someone makes that choice, they once again separate themselves from the rest of us—and as a result, they will wither away.

    The same goes for all negativity

    The same goes for all other negative acts—anger, hatred, greed, envy, and for example deceit—all serve to deepen the divide, pushing the individual further from unity and vitality, until only isolation remains.

    Villains are universal magic

    The villains are basically the universe’s way of getting rid of the unwanted—those who, through selfishness, fear, or other negative acts, have disconnected from themselves/ourselves. Their emergence in a story reflects the audience’s collective desire to confront and remove these disconnected parts.

    Or rather, present the proganists who made bad choices with trials and tribulations—challenges meant to help them realize that something is amiss within themselves and, if possible, to correct their course and mend their actions.

    Which is exactly what the whole storytelling actually is.

    Final thoughts

    So, when we see a villain on screen, now we know what’s their purpose. They represent hero’s shadow/negative self. And vice versa, when we see a hero being chased by villains, we can now understand why it came to that. It’s rarely that they are innocent victims.

    They have done something fearful or selfish, and the universe—meaning the audience, including yourself—is responding to that.

    You might ask yourself, Why do I want to see this character removed or challenged? This is the very question the audience is asking as well.

    As a writer, know that sooner or later, the audience will want to uncover those hero’s flaws or negative traits—and they will want to see them addressed and transformed. Don’t leave this arc unresolved.

    In this way, the emergence of villains will allways remain meaningful and justified.

    Ira

  • What internally drives/motivates a villain

    Throughout the ages of storytelling, countless villains have come and gone—many ultimately dismantled and defeated. And surely, many more are yet to appear. They all share one defining trait: they are evil.

    What they don’t share, however, is motivation. Villains vary greatly in why they do what they do. Some are driven by believable, even relatable motives. Others seem evil just for the sake of being evil—which in the eyes of the audience almost always falls flat.

    Still, we understand why this happens. It’s difficult to write a convincing villain if you aren’t one yourself. In a way, that’s actually reassuring—it means most writers aren’t evil 🙂 But I digress.

    Does that mean writers are angels? Not at all. They sin. Everyone sins. And just like every hero eventually does in a story, they too point fingers. They don’t get it yet. But sooner or later they will. Once they look themselves in the mirror.

    Which is the hard part. To look yourself in the mirror and to realize that what you’re blaming others for is really unresolved within yourself. In a story, this is often the beginning of the end for the villain—who is nothing more than the hero’s shadow self.

    So in short, “behind the scenes”, internally in spirit, something like this is happening:

    • Villain has free will so he can choose sin.
    • Sin is a judgment against God – or love.
    • The villain’s soul is part of God/love, so sin becomes a judgment against himself.
    • The villain feels the universe (doesn’t know that its just himself) is judging him and believes it is out to get him. He is pointing fingers, convinced evil is external to him.
    • He must eliminate everyone who judges him or delay judgment by any means necessary. And this is the villains true motivation!
    • He is too weak internally to atone for his sins, so he turns to aggression.

    And that is exactly what the hero is througout the story—too weak to atone for his sins. If he seem too adorable to be able to sin, he might still be able to put the idea of free will (to choose sin) under some kind of a scrutiny.

    But then later in the story, when the hero grows strong enough to atone, he inevitably in parallel defeats the external villain.