Arcaneya

Category: Story MD

  • House of Gucci (2021): Polishing a Watchable Drama into a Timeless Tragedy

    Ridley Scott’s House of Gucci is a lavish, immersive film—long at two hours and forty minutes, yet never dull. Scene by scene, it’s alive with intrigue, power plays, and grand emotion. The performances are striking: Lady Gaga radiates charisma and conviction, Adam Driver delivers quiet complexity, and the supporting cast—from Al Pacino’s seasoned gravitas to Jeremy Irons’s fragile dignity—makes every moment visually and emotionally engaging.
    And Jared Leto, in his turn as Paolo, completely redeems himself from his Joker misfire—at least in my eyes.

    As it stands, House of Gucci is a good film, a confidently told saga of ambition and betrayal. But within its already strong structure lies the potential for greatness—a path toward mythic clarity and emotional inevitability.

    From Good to Great: The Hidden Pitfalls

    The film’s pitfalls aren’t obvious flaws—they’re more like missed opportunities. The pacing works, the tone is steady, and the drama is engaging, yet the story hovers between perspectives, leaving audiences unsure who the true protagonist is. Maurizio’s arc is restrained; Patrizia’s is passionate but scattered. The movie chronicles what happened, but not always why it had to happen. In mythic storytelling, the audience needs a single soul to follow—a heart whose triumph or collapse embodies the theme. That heart should have been Patrizia Reggiani.

    Reimagining Patrizia as the True Lead

    Our mission is to polish her character arc—to deepen it into something archetypal, where every rise and fall feels inevitable. Patrizia should not merely orbit Maurizio’s choices; the story should chart her journey from aspiration to obsession, from glamour to ruin.

    Ridley Scott’s original opening already hints at the duality—Patrizia walking elegantly through her father’s trucking yard, surrounded by grit and noise. But because she smiles and flirts, the intended juxtaposition—refinement versus roughness—fades into charm. In our reimagined version, that moment should reveal clear resentment: a woman in silk suffocating in diesel fumes, aching to escape the world of commerce and oil.

    The Hubris and the Fall

    Hubris demands a stumble. Before meeting Maurizio, Patrizia should face a humbling failure born from pride. She dresses in her finest, bringing a friend to a high-society gala, convinced she belongs. But at the door, the doorman checks the list—her name isn’t there. The pause, the whisper, the polite smile—humiliation. Determined, she sneaks in through the servants’ entrance, brushing past crates and kitchen staff, clutching her pride like a jewel. Inside, under glittering chandeliers, she locks eyes with Maurizio Gucci.
    From that moment, her motivation is crystal clear: never again will she stand outside the palace.

    Make her fly High to fall Low

    As Maurizio falls in love and brings her into the family, Patrizia thrives in the limelight. Flashbulbs follow her; society papers crown her Lady Gucci. Maurizio indulges her instincts, even letting her make key business decisions—hiring, firing, shaping campaigns. She begins to taste true power and mistakes it for destiny.
    At a grand Gucci family dinner, conversation turns to backgrounds. Someone mentions her trucking roots; she freezes, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. In a heartbeat, she recovers, laughing lightly, diverting attention with wit. The guests applaud her charm, but under the table her hand trembles. Under no circumstances does she want to return to her past.

    The Breaking Moment: Selling the Name

    In the original film, Patrizia orders the murder before Maurizio sells his stake in Gucci. But in our reimagining, the sale must come first—the ultimate betrayal. By selling the company, Maurizio doesn’t just end a business; he erases her kingdom. The name that gave her identity becomes a commodity. The woman who rose from the fumes to rule in diamonds is thrust back into the same void she tried to escape. And Maurizio leaves her for another, completing the humiliation.

    Now the murder is no longer sensational—it’s inevitable. Her pride cannot bear the annihilation. He has killed her dream, her reflection, her name. In her eyes, ending his life in return is restoring balance. Where a hero might break down, repent, and surrender, Patrizia doubles down—the mark of an antiheroine.

    Forging the Antiheroine

    In myth, the reckoning divides heroes from antiheroes. The hero, faced with ruin, looks inward—cries, confesses, releases the illusion of control, and is reborn in humility. The antihero cannot bend. Pride turns pain into aggression; the wound demands conquest. Patrizia stands at that crossroad and chooses vengeance.
    Her act is not merely crime—it’s the tragic expression of a soul unable to surrender.

    Conclusion: A More Archetypal Tragedy

    With these refinements—resentment in the opening, humiliation before love, visible power in her rise, the sale as ultimate wound—the story transforms. House of Gucci becomes a true archetypal story. By letting Patrizia face her reckoning—the point of no return and eventually choose pride over grace, the film would ascend from an engaging biopic to a timeless tragedy, showing how antiheroes are born when ego refuses to die—and how every crown forged in vanity eventually turns to ash.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Superman (2025): Did James Gunn Snuck In Some Politics Into the Plot?

    James Gunn is, without question, one of the most imaginative directors in modern Hollywood. He has that rare talent to blend wit, warmth, and spectacle into a rhythm that’s effortlessly watchable. From the opening moments of Superman (2025), you feel that signature touch. The banter between Clark Kent and Lois Lane sparkles. Their private newsroom conversations feel intimate and alive. Gunn’s attention to small human details — the humor tucked into glances, the way ordinary people react to extraordinary situations — gives the first act a pulse of authenticity. For a while, it seems like Gunn has done the impossible: he’s brought Superman back down to Earth.

    The early scenes promise a film that understands what made the character iconic in the first place — not just power, but presence. Clark feels human, endearing, and believable. You lean in because you care about him as a man first, hero second. For many viewers, these quiet moments of charm and humor outshine the rifts and skybeams that inevitably follow.

    And then, somewhere past the midpoint, the narrative begins to unravel. The human heartbeat gives way to the thunder of CGI. The story starts bending not around Superman’s choices, but around the choices made for him. In a proper hero’s journey, the protagonist gets into trouble because of his own limitations — a lapse of judgment, a flaw of pride, an untested ideal. These errors summon the storm, forcing the hero to wrestle with consequence and rise renewed. But Gunn’s Superman never truly stumbles. He doesn’t fall from grace because of his own doing; instead, he’s framed, misunderstood, and manipulated by forces outside himself. He becomes, in essence, a victim of circumstance.

    Lex Luthor masterminds a false narrative to turn the world against him, and Superman’s role becomes largely reactive. He defends, endures, and rescues, but rarely chooses in ways that redefine him. Even the final resolution isn’t the fruit of his insight or strategy; it’s his coworkers and allies who piece together the truth and expose Luthor’s deceit. The Justice League ensemble handles much of the heavy lifting, both literally and narratively. Superman, meanwhile, moves rubble, shields civilians, and ensures buildings don’t collapse — noble, yes, but narratively inert. By the time he leans in for the climactic kiss with Lois, it feels unearned, almost perfunctory — one of the least deserved kisses in recent cinematic memory. It’s as if the movie wanted the emotional payoff of a full heroic arc without ever letting its hero earn it.

    This creative choice leaves the audience with an odd emptiness. Superman remains flawless, misunderstood, and vindicated — but unchanged. And in mythic storytelling, transformation is the soul of heroism. Without it, even the brightest savior can feel strangely distant.

    Yet beneath the spectacle and charm, there’s a thread running quietly through the film that’s hard to ignore. Superman is portrayed as an alien outsider, struggling for acceptance in a world quick to fear difference. Lex Luthor, by contrast, is painted as the cynical nationalist — mistrusting, condescending, determined to expose the foreigner’s flaws. The dynamic feels deliberate: the noble immigrant versus the native skeptic. In today’s polarized climate, that metaphor echoes real-world political tensions, whether intended or not. To some viewers, Luthor’s disdain rings familiar, mirroring rhetoric from the right that fears unchecked immigration. To others, Superman’s grace feels like a plea from the left for empathy and inclusion.

    Now, perhaps this is all coincidence — after all, Superman’s immigrant symbolism is as old as the character himself. But one can’t help imagining James Gunn, ever the clever craftsman, smiling to himself as he sprinkles in a theme that might play like a subtle wink to progressive audiences. Maybe he didn’t write it to preach, but to giggle — to earn knowing nods from left-leaning circles and a few admiring glances from politically-minded brunettes in the back row.

    Whether intentional or subconscious, the result is a story that feels tilted toward commentary. Superman, the innocent outsider, suffers unjustly; Lex, the fearful insider, becomes the embodiment of intolerance. It’s not that the message is wrong — compassion over fear is timeless — but by shaping the conflict around ideological archetypes rather than personal choices, the film trades mythic depth for moral certainty.

    And that, ultimately, is what keeps Superman (2025) from soaring into true greatness. A true hero’s journey isn’t about being right or just from the start. It’s about stumbling, seeing one’s own shadow, and choosing humility. The climax shouldn’t hinge on clearing a name but on clearing the heart. The most moving heroes don’t save the world through brute force; they save their world — their relationships, their integrity, their capacity to love. When they learn to forgive, to trust again, to act from grace rather than pride — that’s when the universe shifts. That’s when the kiss is deserved.

    Superman (2025) is witty, heartfelt, and watchable, but it stops just short of myth. Gunn gives us a savior adored, not a soul transformed. And in stories that aim for timelessness, it’s not the mightiest who win our hearts — it’s the ones who fall, grow, and rise loving more than before.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Raya and the Last Dragon (2021): A Beautiful World in Need of Grounding

    Disney’s Raya and the Last Dragon arrived in 2021 with stunning visuals, heartfelt performances, and a central theme that resonates across cultures: trust as the key to healing a broken world. Critics and audiences largely found it watchable and emotionally engaging, praising its Southeast Asian inspirations and message of unity. Yet beneath its shimmering surface, the film carries a handful of structural flaws that blur its mythic logic and weaken its emotional payoff. These issues don’t ruin the movie—they simply keep it from becoming the timeless fable it wants to be.

    Let’s look at where the story drifts and how a few grounded adjustments could let its message truly flow.

    The Exposition Avalanche

    The film opens by telling us the entire backstory—dragons, Druun, the magical gem, and the world’s division—before we meet a single living soul. Because we never experience these events through emotion, they fade from memory; even crucial details, such as the dragons remaining petrified after the first miracle, slip away. A stronger opening would show the fall of harmony in a brief cinematic prologue, then let the remaining lore surface naturally through dialogue and discovery. What the hero learns, the audience remembers.

    The Silly Dragon Lore

    We’re informed that dragons “brought water and rain,” as if they were benevolent weather dispensers. This oversimplified notion breaks the myth’s dignity. True elemental beings don’t hand out resources like gifts; they embody the balance of nature itself. Instead, the story could introduce Dragonettes—elemental spirits that like to take the form of dragons. When trust falters, they withdraw, and the elements still. Rain returns not because they “make” it, but because balance is restored.

    Cozy, Predictable Dragons

    All dragons are portrayed as friendly, plush companions. Without mystery or danger, awe disappears. The Dragonettes should be unpredictable—sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce—reflecting the inner state of the world and of Raya herself. When fear divides her heart, they dim; when she trusts, they shimmer. Mythic creatures mirror humanity’s virtues and flaws, not cushion them.

    The First Failed Miracle left dragons petrified

    Sisu’s initial use of the gem saves humanity but leaves the dragons stone, a contradiction never explained. To ground the law of magic, Sisu could admit a tragic mistake: she didn’t trust enough. And from that she learned. The gem requires trust—every heart beating as one—for full restoration. Her doubt achieved partial salvation; faith was the missing element.

    Ungrounded Shapeshifting

    Sisu’s sudden transformation into human form arrives without foreshadowing, feeling whimsical rather than wondrous. If Dragonettes can change shape according to harmony, this should be stated early. Begin with Sisu in human guise—humble, uncertain—so Raya doubts her claim being Sisu. Only when trust blossoms does she reveal her magnificent true form, turning transformation into payoff instead of surprise.

    Namaari’s Vague Antagonism

    Namaari’s resistance to uniting the gem feels contrived. Facing extinction, why hesitate? Give her a clear motive: fear of being petrified again. The shard she clings to is both shield and symbol of control. Handing it over means surrendering her last defense. Now her hesitation carries emotional logic rather than arbitrary conflict.

    Doubt After Sisu’s Death

    When Sisu falls, Namaari’s despair and holding on to the shard should deepen: “Only a Dragon can restore the gem.” This belief amplifies the tension. The humans must act with no guarantee, trusting an unseen law. The waiting becomes sacred suspense, turning faith into the film’s true climax.

    A Resurrection with Cost

    In the current film, Sisu’s automatic revival cancels decision-consequence paradigm. The real resurrection already occurs when the world and dragons awaken anyhow. To preserve weight, Sisu should remain lifeless as the Dragonettes mourn her. Only after Raya and Namaari fully repent—confessing pride, fear, and guilt—does harmony ignite and Sisu breathe again. Her return then embodies transformation, not reset.

    How These Changes Heal the Story

    With these adjustments, Raya and the Last Dragon transforms from a visually impressive parable with loose logic into a fully realized myth with emotional weight and spiritual coherence. The exposition becomes lived experience; the Dragonettes replace simplistic rain-bringers with elemental grace and symbolic truth; miracles follow consistent laws grounded in moral action.

    Trust is no longer a slogan but a tangible force — the current that flows when hearts align. Sacrifice retains consequence, resurrection becomes transformation, and every act reflects a world that operates by clear spiritual physics.

    But perhaps most importantly, these changes restore archetypal familiarity and true dragon lore remains intact. When storytellers deviate too far from these shared narrative roots, the audience struggles to orient themselves. The eyes may admire the spectacle, but the soul cannot recognize its reflection.

    Without that resonance, even the most lavish film risks feeling hollow — failing to generate the emotional word-of-mouth that drives lasting success. A movie can dazzle in the short term, but if its symbols are unmoored and its miracles unearned, it won’t echo in conversation or memory.

    Audiences can’t champion a story they don’t quite understand. You can’t start an excited debate with friends when you’re still trying to decode what you just watched. Imagine the conversation:

    Person A: So, what were the dragons like?
    Person B: Oh, they brought water… you know, like rain spirits.
    Person A: Wait, what?
    Person B: Yeah… and they were magical… I think?
    Person A: Magical? How so?
    Person B: I don’t know… They were turned to stone anyway.
    Person A: …Right. And how was Superman the other day?

    If viewers can’t explain what moved them, or why the world’s logic makes sense, the emotional spark fizzles. Confusion replaces wonder, and conversation drifts to safer ground.

    That’s why mythic clarity matters — not just for artistic integrity, but for cultural survival. When stories honor archetypes and internal laws, audiences recognize their echoes and carry them forward. When they don’t, even spectacle becomes forgettable.

    Grounding a story in coherent myth isn’t just artistic discipline — it’s storytelling economics. Connection creates meaning, meaning creates buzz, and buzz fills seats. By aligning emotional truth with archetypal clarity, Raya and the Last Dragon could have become not only a beautiful film, but a cultural touchstone — one that flows like water through time, remembered for what it taught as much as what it showed.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Strange World (2022): Improving the Colorful Adventure with a Living Myth and a Love Left Behind

    Disney’s Strange World (2022) arrived with a vibrant aesthetic, retro-pulp sensibilities, and a bold environmental allegory. Set in the lush land of Avalonia, the film follows three generations of the Clade family as they descend into a fantastical underground realm to discover why their crops — the lifeblood of their civilization — are dying. With imaginative visuals and commendable diversity, the film seemed poised to join the ranks of Disney’s grand adventures.

    And yet, despite its ambition, Strange World struggled to resonate with audiences. Its box office performance was disappointing, and its emotional impact felt muted. Many viewers left with the sense that the film had all the right ingredients — wonder, family drama, and a meaningful message — but never found its soul.

    Two major narrative missteps undermined its potential:
    first, an unearned and unforeshadowed twist that broke immersion;
    and second, a misunderstanding of the Hero’s Journey that robbed the adventure of emotional necessity.

    The First Problem: A Twist Without Roots

    In the film’s climax, the characters — and the audience — learn that the strange subterranean world is actually the interior of a colossal living creature, a giant turtle-like being upon which Avalonia rests. This revelation is meant to shock, inspire awe, and deliver a profound message about humanity’s relationship with nature.

    But because no myth, symbol, or clue hinted at such a being, the twist lands like a narrative ambush. The audience isn’t invited to discover; they’re blindsided. Good twists recontextualize what came before, letting earlier mysteries click into place. Here, the lack of foreshadowing transforms revelation into confusion.

    The Fix: Seed the Myth Early

    The story could open with a legend: a Great Being whose slumber sustains the land, whose heartbeat feeds the soil. Jaeger Clade, the bold explorer, would dedicate his life to finding it — believing the myth holds the secret to eternal prosperity. His journey underground would be one of faith, not curiosity.

    Along the way, the explorers would encounter clues — faint pulses in the terrain, bioluminescent veins, creatures behaving like immune cells — subtle hints that this world is more organism than cavern. Jaeger might even mistake massive beasts for the Great Being, only to realize later that the true creature is far grander, and they have been walking inside it all along.

    When the revelation finally comes, it wouldn’t insult intelligence; it would fulfill wonder.

    The Second Problem: An Adventure Without a Wound

    The Hero’s Journey doesn’t begin in paradise; it begins when paradise cracks. The call to adventure emerges from trouble in the heart, from imbalance or loss that demands healing.

    In Strange World, however, the Clade family’s life appears idyllic. Searcher, the son turned farmer, lives peacefully with his wife Meridian and their son Ethan. There is love, stability, and comfort — too much, in fact. When the crops begin to fail, the crisis feels external and mechanical, not emotional. The adventure becomes a mission, not a rite of passage.

    To compound the issue, Meridian joins the expedition, bringing warmth, humor, and harmony into the strange world. Her presence dissolves tension before it can form. The family enters the unknown united — which means there’s nothing to repair, no emotional fracture to parallel the dying crops.

    The Fix: Let Love Stay Behind

    To honor mythic structure, the story needs a wound of love. Perhaps Searcher’s pursuit of safety and order has quietly drained passion from his marriage. Maybe he and Meridian have grown distant — not in conflict, but in quiet neglect. Ethan senses it, unsure which parent’s path to follow.

    The failing crops then become a mirror of the family’s emotional drought — the world’s heartbeat faltering because their own has dimmed. When the expedition begins, Meridian remains behind, representing the love and wholeness Searcher has lost. Her absence creates a yearning that infuses every step of the journey.

    As father, son, and grandfather descend deeper, they face reflections of their inner turmoil — stubbornness, disconnection, pride. Healing the world requires healing themselves. And when they finally understand that the creature’s ailment stems from their own exploitative ways, the resolution becomes both ecological and emotional: to save the Great Being, they must restore love, balance, and humility in their hearts.

    The Mythic Truth: Inner and Outer Worlds Are One

    The greatest adventures are never just about what lies beyond — they are about what lies within.
    In myth, the hero’s outer quest mirrors an inner transformation. When love falters, the world sickens; when harmony is restored, creation flourishes.

    Strange World aimed for this truth but missed the emotional groundwork that would make it resonate. By foreshadowing the Great Being through myth and anchoring the journey in a wound of love, the film could have transformed from spectacle into symbol — a story where healing the land means healing the soul.

    Because in every true hero’s journey, paradise is not found in discovery.
    It is reborn in the heart.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Immaculate (2024): Fixing the Central Contradiction And Adding True Horror

    Immaculate (2024): Fixing the Central Contradiction And Adding True Horror

    Immaculate (2024) is a proper horror film. From its opening scenes in the secluded convent to its oppressive atmosphere and Sydney Sweeney’s anchored performance, the movie delivers genuine tension, body horror, and a sense of dread rarely seen in contemporary horror. For much of the runtime, it feels like a masterclass in suspense. Yet, despite these strengths, the film falters in ways that prevent it from reaching its full terrifying potential.

    The Contradiction at the Heart of the Story

    At the center of the film lies a glaring contradiction: Cecilia is impregnated using DNA allegedly taken from the nail Christ was nailed to the cross. On one hand, the story leans into religious horror, framing her pregnancy as a modern miracle; on the other, it turns into a twisted genetic experiment. The problem is obvious—if the goal was merely to create a child carrying Christ’s DNA, there was no need to convince everyone of an immaculate conception. Conversely, if the film wanted to emphasize a miracle, introducing DNA experiments is not needed.

    Straightening the Story

    The simplest solution to this contradiction is to remove the nail DNA storyline altogether. The horror would become more coherent, grounded, and human: the convent doesn’t need mystical DNA; its evil can exist in the manipulation and violation of its victims alone.

    A More Sinister Plot

    Once the supernatural gimmick is discarded, the story can embrace a darker and far more disturbing truth: Father Sal himself as the source. Imagine a plot where he impregnates women in their sleep, weaponizing faith and secrecy to achieve his twisted ends. This approach heightens the horror on multiple levels. The fear is both physical and psychological—the audience realizes that the true danger comes from someone who wields spiritual authority, and that authority is being perverted into a tool of control. It makes the villain frighteningly human, consistent, and psychotic, a man whose obsession with power and worship drives him to treat both women and faith as instruments for his own ends.

    The Pitfall of Over-Exposition

    Another weakness in the film is the mid-movie villain exposition. This scene undermines tension, renders Cecilia passive, and subtly shortchanges the audience, implying that viewers cannot connect the dots on their own. Horror thrives on what is left unsaid; ambiguity forces the audience to imagine, to infer, and to feel the creeping dread themselves. A stronger approach would have been to let Cecilia gradually uncover the truth—finding the tools for sedation and impregnation, piecing together clues, and ultimately realizing that Sal is behind it. By omitting full explanations, the horror becomes more immersive, sinister, and memorable.

    Elevating the Antagonist

    These changes would elevate Father Sal to an epic level of horror. He becomes a psycho whose obsession with power and worship is so extreme that he attempts to turn his offspring into a messiah, manipulating faith, trust, and innocence to satisfy his ego. To heighten the discomfort, he should not be conventionally attractive; the story works best if his presence is unsettling, someone utterly unfit for the women he targets, reinforcing the grotesque imbalance of desire and authority. This version would create a villain who is terrifying, human, and utterly believable—a man whose cruelty is amplified by the veneer of religious sanctity.

    Immaculate already succeeds in many areas, but stripping away the pseudo-scientific gimmick, embracing a human source of horror, and letting dread unfold gradually would transform the story from compelling to unforgettable. It would make the villain not just a character, but an emblem of obsession, control, and the dark extremes of psychotic ambition.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Black Adam (2022): Apologising to the Antihero? Not in This Reworked Outline

    Black Adam arrived with strong momentum. The opening half of the movie had tension, clarity, and spectacle: an ancient antihero awakened, a clash with the Justice Society, and a city caught between freedom and destruction. It worked because the story had rules. Adam was immensely powerful, yet vulnerable to Eternium. He was brutal, yet bound by his own sense of justice. For a while, it felt like the movie had its footing.

    But somewhere in the second half, the logic started to unravel. Adam simply decided to give up his powers, surrendered to the Justice Society, and allowed himself to be locked away. What should have been a dramatic turning point instead felt like a stalling tactic. To make matters worse, the Justice Society — the supposed voice of order and morality — ended up apologizing to Adam later, undercutting their role as the moral backbone of the film.

    It is true, that Adam is different. In traditional storytelling, heroes go through a dark night of the soul. They’re brought low, they repent, and then they rise above their flaws. But Adam is not a traditional hero. He’s an antihero — and in that archetype, the crucial step of apology is deliberately skipped. Antiheroes grow through more or less forceful actions, not through repentance. They are defined by their refusal to bend to the world’s rules. So why would heros then bow to them?

    A Different Way Forward

    Taking this into account, the second half of Black Adam could have unfolded with more bite and more tension. In the beginning, the film established that Adam was vulnerable to Eternium — a weakness that was never used again. In a reimagined outline, Eternium would return as the Justice Society’s trump card, the one way they could bring Adam down.

    The clash would escalate when Adam kills a civilian by accident, or through negligence. Not a faceless extra, but someone we’ve come to know and care about — maybe a friendly figure from Kahndaq who reminded Adam of what he once lost. The moment might even happen in the heat of the battle with Sabbac, where Adam’s destructive methods blur the line between justice and collateral damage.

    This would be the Justice Society’s breaking point. They finally lose their composure and use Eternium to pin Adam down. For once, he is not surrendering of his own will — he’s being forced into a cage. And here comes the crucial twist: the Society tries to force an apology out of him. Hawkman demands it. Doctor Fate attempts to reason with him. Adrianna pleads with compassion. But Adam never apologizes. It’s simply not who he is.

    When Sabbac’s rise threatens them all, the Justice Society realize they have no choice. They need Adam. With no apology in hand, they must settle for releasing him and learning to fight alongside someone they cannot tame. This uneasy truce would carry the tension through the entire third act, so that every moment of their alliance feels unstable, dangerous, and necessary.

    An Antihero’s Apology Without Words

    And while Adam never says “sorry,” he would still show growth in his own way. Near the end, he could repeat one of his casual gestures from earlier in the film — throwing a civilian out of harm’s way with reckless force. But this time, he catches him. Literally. He swoops back, retrieves the civilian, and sets them down safely before resuming the fight. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to an apology, and it says more than words could. Plus, it lets the film close on a slightly humorous beat — Adam doesn’t change who he is, but he learns to temper his destruction just enough to protect the people he claims to fight for.

    Conclusion

    By reworking the second half in this way, the story would hold its tension all the way through. Adam would never be declawed by a hollow surrender, the Justice Society would retain their spine, and the uneasy alliance at the end would feel earned instead of awkward. Most importantly, the antihero’s arc would stay true to its nature — no cheap apologies, only actions that prove he’s capable of growth without losing his edge. That’s the version of Black Adam that could have turned its messy second half into something bold, memorable, and fitting for the antihero it set out to portray.

    Thank you!

    Ira

  • Black Adam (2022): The Crown That Confused the Story

    Black Adam began with promise. The first half of the film carried weight—an antihero awakening after centuries, clashing with the Justice Society, and a city torn between hope and destruction. But somewhere past the midpoint, the story lost its footing. Plot threads tangled, character arcs diffused, and one of the most glaring examples of lost logic was the treatment of the mystical crown of Sabbac.

    The Crown Logic That Didn’t Add Up

    The crown is introduced with an ominous scripture: “Death is the only way to life.” A neat bit of foreshadowing—except the way the film handled it felt like narrative gymnastics. Ishmael, the villain, kidnaps young Amon and taunts Black Adam with the situation, believing Adam will strike him down. Ishmael’s plan? To be killed by Adam while wearing the crown, fulfilling the prophecy and returning as Sabbac.

    But here’s the problem: how would Ishmael know Adam would play along? Why wouldn’t he stage his own death instead of relying on his enemy to do it? It’s a ludicrously fragile plan, hinging on unpredictable choices. And when it does play out, the logic falters even more—Adam kills Ishmael, who resurrects from some distant water pit, while the crown back on the Justice Society’s ship conveniently disintegrates. The geography and mechanics of it all leave the audience scratching their heads.

    Dodging the Cliché, But Losing Clarity

    It’s clear what the writers were trying to do. They didn’t want the tired trope of “villain puts on the MacGuffin and turns into the big bad.” That’s been done in superhero films for decades. But in trying to dodge the cliché, they tied themselves in knots. Instead of clarity and inevitability, the crown subplot became contrived and confusing.

    A Cleaner Alternative: The Crown as a Trap

    What if the crown wasn’t an instant power-up but a deadly trial? A cursed object that kills anyone who dares wear it. That’s why it’s guarded so fiercely—not because it’s a simple key, but because it’s a death sentence. The wearer is reduced to ash. Only then, if the underworld deems the sacrifice worthy, does the person remanifest as Sabbac.

    Imagine how much stronger this would play in the film. Ishmael dons the crown, confident in his destiny. He’s incinerated before everyone’s eyes—a shocking, seemingly final defeat. The Justice Society brings the crown back to their ship and puts it into its showcase, believing the threat ended. But then, in their very midst, Ishmael rematerializes as Sabbac beneath the crown’s resting place, catching them off guard. The resurrection feels immediate, tied to the crown, and organically escalates the tension.

    Why This Fix Works Better

    This alternative keeps the prophecy intact, avoids a hostage contrivance, and doesn’t require Sabbac to emerge from a remote, disconnected location. Instead of the villain’s return feeling like a clumsy afterthought, it becomes the natural consequence of his ambition and the crown’s curse. The Justice Society is implicated too—their decision to “safely” put the crown away is exactly what allows Sabbac to rise.

    Conclusion

    The crown subplot is a small part of Black Adam, but it’s emblematic of where the film stumbled. The first half set up intriguing conflicts, only for the second half to spiral into contrivances and confused logic. By reframing the crown as a deadly trial rather than a vague prophecy puzzle, the story would have avoided backflips, delivered a cleaner resurrection for Sabbac, and tied the climax more closely to the main characters. Sometimes leaning into a trope with a twist is better than dodging it with convolution.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Inside Out 2 (2024): Awesome Like First Until the Flat Ending

    Pixar’s Inside Out 2 is a worthy successor to its brilliant predecessor. It expands Riley’s inner world with fresh emotions like Anxiety, Envy, and Embarrassment, and once again balances humor, heart, and psychology with an ease few studios can match. For much of its runtime, the film sparkles — insightful, funny, and often deeply moving. But when it reaches its conclusion, the storytelling falters. Instead of delivering an open ending that leaves the audience holding their breath, it pours a pitcher of cool water over the tension.

    The Flat Ending

    The setup is perfect: Riley waits for news about whether she’ll make the hockey team. This is the kind of small-yet-huge moment adolescence is built on — the stakes feel enormous, even if the world at large won’t notice. Yet instead of letting the suspense land, the film undermines itself. Joy reassures Anxiety with a “you can rest now” moment, as if to appease the audience that Riley will be fine regardless. The fellow hockey players also soften the scene with a clumsy line: “If you don’t make it this year, there’s always next year.” That may have been intended as comfort, but it doesn’t ring true to teenage voices, nor does it heighten the stakes. It dilutes them.

    The Charged Alternative

    Imagine a different approach. Riley opens her email, the entire control room goes tense. Every emotion is at the ready behind the switchboard.

    • Joy is hopeful, leaning forward.
    • Sadness is steady, prepared to help Riley accept the outcome.
    • Anxiety is taut but not dismissed — her vigilance has value here.
    • Fear hides under the console, bracing for disaster.
    • Embarrassment shifts uncomfortably, dreading either outcome.

    No speeches. No reassurances. Just a lineup of emotions in their raw readiness, mirroring the weight of Riley’s moment. We cut back to Riley’s face as she reacts — but the list itself remains unseen. The screen fades.

    Why It Matters

    That alternative doesn’t change the ambiguity — we still never find out if Riley made the team — but it transforms it from a flat anticlimax into an electric moment. Instead of being told “it doesn’t matter,” we would feel the truth: Riley’s life is no longer about simple wins or losses. It’s about holding space for uncertainty, for joy and fear and sadness all at once. And that’s what makes Inside Out so brilliant when it’s firing on all cylinders.

    Ambiguity works best not when it soothes us, but when it leaves us buzzing with possibility.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Moana 2 (2024): Robbed of Free-Will Once More. Let’s Fix That Once More

    Disney’s Moana 2 continues the oceanic journey with stunning visuals, lush animation, and songs that carry the same celebratory rhythm of Polynesian culture. The surface shines, but once more the story falters at its core. Just as the first film stripped Moana of her agency by having the ocean itself “choose” her as the special one, this sequel falls into the same trap by anchoring her journey to an ancestral vision that dictates her mission. The effect is the same: Moana becomes the instrument of forces beyond her, rather than an individual with her own choices, doubts, and courage.

    A More Natural Beginning Through Human Choice

    Instead of another imposed vision, the sequel could begin with something both smaller and more profound: Moana’s parents. Around the fire, her father and mother recall an ancient myth whispered across generations, a story of an island said to unite the tribes. Their ancestors once sought this place but failed, and the tale has remained a haunting fragment rather than a promise. In their conversation, they quietly arrive at a painful truth: if anyone could succeed, it might be their daughter—because she has not only proven herself a wayfinder, but she has a bond with the sea that few can explain.

    It is a fragile decision. By speaking of this myth to Moana, they are risking their eldest daughter’s life once more. Yet unlike the visions of the first film, this choice restores the essential weight: they present Moana with the possibility, and she must decide whether to take the burden upon herself. Moana accepts, not because she is commanded, but because she chooses.

    Keeping the Island Shrouded in Ambiguity

    The myth itself must be treated with uncertainty, not as fact. The parents do not claim that the island of Motufetu exists, nor that it would automatically unite the tribes. All they know is that ancient wayfinders charted something beneath a cluster of stars, a place their maps left incomplete. That fragment, and that fragment alone, is enough to stir Moana’s imagination and sense of responsibility.

    This ambiguity gives the quest depth. The stakes are no longer a checklist—find the island, unite the people—but an unfolding mystery. The characters and the audience must wrestle with doubt: is there even an island at all? And if so, what meaning could it truly hold?

    Maui’s Place in the Mystery

    In the original, Maui flatly explains that the island has sunk, which undercuts the narrative tension. In a reimagining, his knowledge would be less definitive. He would recall that sailors once spoke of a place hidden in an eternal mist or storm, where ships vanished without return. Perhaps it was a trap. Perhaps it was land. Perhaps it was nothing but the ocean playing tricks. This tone of skepticism keeps him in character while preserving the mystery.

    Only when Moana and Maui navigate under those very stars do they discover the truth themselves: there is nothing. No island. Just empty sea or swirling mist. In that moment, the legend shatters, and the characters must confront despair. The absence becomes a revelation—Motufetu did exist, but it is gone, swallowed by the ocean long ago.

    Why This Reimagining Matters

    This alternative outline restores Moana’s agency from the very first act, allowing her to make her own decision to set sail. It preserves the myth of Motufetu as something fragile, uncertain, and open to interpretation rather than a matter-of-fact quest object. And it makes the eventual payoff of a successful mission more meaningful, because it is not destiny that drives Moana, but her own choice, her own perseverance, and her own faith in the unknown.

    By embracing ambiguity instead of certainty and not only sing about it, Moana 2 could have turned its sequel journey into something more resonant: a story where the ancestors does not hand down orders, but where a young woman dares to follow a mystery—and in doing so, truly earns her triumph.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Moana (2016): A Masterpiece with a Small But Obvious Crack

    Disney’s Moana is one of those rare animated films that feels timeless the moment you watch it. From its lush animation and breathtaking water effects to its heartfelt songs and vibrant cultural grounding, it truly soars on almost every level. Moana herself stands as one of Disney’s strongest heroines—courageous, compassionate, and grounded in her people’s traditions while yearning to discover the wider world. The movie is endlessly watchable, emotionally rich, and bursting with life.

    Yet beneath all its strengths, there lies one structural weakness in the story that subtly undercuts its tension: the “chosen one” trope. It’s the one crack worth pointing out. One might find other reasons to critique the story, like the expositions, the MacGuffin (Heart of Te Fiti), and the ungrounded magic logic, however I think those were put together rather well. Well, maybe another day.

    The Problem of Being Chosen

    In the film’s original version, the ocean selects Moana when she is only a child, presenting her with the Heart of Te Fiti in a way that feels definitive and irreversible. From that point forward, Moana is marked as the destined savior of her people, having no free-will of her own. While inspiring on the surface, this removes much of the story’s suspense. If the ocean itself has chosen Moana, then her success feels preordained. Every trial she faces is softened by the audience’s knowledge that she cannot truly fail—the ocean is her safety net, guiding and even rescuing her when danger looms.

    The result is that Moana, a character who ought to be defined by her choices and resilience, becomes strangely passive at times. The ocean’s intervention robs her of some of her agency, and the story loses some of its edge.

    Reintroducing Ambiguity

    The solution lies in subtle changes at the very beginning of the film—changes that restore uncertainty, choice, and tension to Moana’s journey. What if, instead of the ocean directly choosing her, the possibility of her destiny were left ambiguous?

    In this reimagined version, when Moana is only two years old, she toddles down to the shore and finds her grandmother dancing with the ocean. Moana giggles and joins in, imitating her grandmother’s playful movements. But then something unexpected happens: the ocean responds to Moana more noticeably than it ever did to Grandma. The waves shimmer, curl, and dance back at her. Grandma is delighted but also intrigued, sensing something unusual yet not daring to call it fate.

    Later, when Moana is about six or seven, another moment deepens the mystery. She plays by the beach, chasing shells and laughing as the waves swell toward her. For a heartbeat, the water seems to beckon her in, but Moana grows nervous and runs back home as the tide recedes. When the waves pull back, Grandma notices something remarkable: the Heart of Te Fiti now lies in the sand, glimmering exactly where Moana had been playing moments before.

    Moana does not see it. She has already dashed away. Grandma, however, picks it up and studies it, a look of awe and wonder on her face. In that moment, she begins to suspect—but never truly knows—that Moana may be destined for something greater. She becomes the silent steward of the stone, holding on to it until Moana is ready to choose the path for herself.

    Agency Restored, Ending Enriched

    With these simple adjustments, the story regains its essential tension. Moana is not unshakably “chosen” from the start. The ocean doesn’t force destiny upon her—it merely responds. The ambiguity allows the audience to share Grandma’s uncertainty: is Moana truly the one, or is it all coincidence?

    This reframing transforms Moana’s journey into one of agency rather than inevitability. She is not carried along by fate; she earns her triumph. When she confronts Te Kā, restores the Heart, and sails home, the victory is all the more powerful because it was never guaranteed.

    Most importantly, the emotional payoff is enriched. By letting the ocean respond to Moana rather than the other way around, her actions, bravery, and growth carry the weight of the story. The conclusion—her celebrated return—feels fully earned, not just foretold.

    In this version, Moana remains the dazzling masterpiece we know, but with one key difference: its heroine shines even brighter because she wins not by destiny, but by choice.

    Thanks,

    Ira