Arcaneya

Category: Story MD

  • Elysium (2013) – Reimagining the Story Without the Gunfire

    Released in 2013, Neill Blomkamp’s Elysium presented a stark, visually stunning vision of a dystopian future. The film introduced us to a world where the ultra-wealthy reside on a pristine, orbital paradise called Elysium, while the vast majority of humanity toils in squalor on a ravaged Earth. At its heart, the premise promised a potent commentary on wealth inequality, healthcare access, and the human cost of a divided society. However, despite its compelling concept and impressive visuals, many viewers, myself included, felt the narrative ultimately stumbled, frequently becoming overshadowed by its own relentless action sequences.

    The original film follows Max Da Costa (Matt Damon), an ex-con exposed to a lethal dose of radiation, whose only hope for survival is a medical trip to Elysium. What unfolds is a fast-paced, often brutal journey filled with intense combat. While the action was undoubtedly well-executed, it frequently felt like the raison d’être of the plot, rather than a natural extension of character motivation or thematic exploration. Max’s desperation, initially so palpable, seemed to get lost as he was pulled into a larger, more revolutionary agenda by the underground operative, Spider. The sheer volume of fighting often strained credulity, particularly given Max’s terminal illness, and the strategic plausibility of Spider’s audacious plan to infiltrate Elysium felt thin. The core message of the film, therefore, risked being drowned out by the noise of battle.

    But what if Elysium‘s potent themes and stunning world were given a different narrative engine? What if the storytelling prioritized personal stakes, character evolution, and a more gradual escalation of conflict over constant spectacle? Here, we propose an alternative plot that aims to “straighten” the narrative, allowing its powerful commentary to resonate more deeply.

    An Alternative Narrative: From Desperation to Selfless Redemption

    Our reimagined story for Elysium centers Max’s journey more deeply in personal connection and a more believable path to both survival and revolutionary impact:

    The narrative begins with Max, not just surviving on Earth, but desperately seeking a way to reconnect with his childhood friend, Frey. He eventually discovers she resides on Elysium. This personal goal fuels his initial, more conventional attempts to reach the station—through political appeals, bureaucratic channels, and even some shady dealings—each met with disheartening failure. These setbacks slowly build his frustration and despair.

    When Max is exposed to the fatal radiation, his desire to reach Elysium transforms into a desperate race against time. He appeals to governments and authorities, not just as a plea for life, but with a raw sense of entitlement, arguing that their negligence and the very existence of Elysium are responsible for his and humanity’s plight. His appeals, however, fall on deaf ears. Mad with frustration and the encroaching illness, Max lashes out, perhaps destroying property or causing a disturbance, leading to his permanent exclusion from any official waiting lists for Elysium.

    This exclusion forces Max into the clandestine world of Spider. Instead of a direct assault, Spider’s plan for Max is more surgical: a high-stakes hack to swap Max’s identity with another passenger’s on an inbound Elysium flight. This moment of ethical ambiguity is dramatically heightened when, just before touchdown, alarms blare, and Max is forcibly ejected back to Earth. He soon discovers the devastating truth: he had stolen the seat of a gravely ill daughter whose mother had paid an exorbitant sum for her life-saving trip.

    Back on Earth, dying and consumed by guilt, Max faces the fury of the distraught mother and daughter. This confrontation forces him to confront his actions, leading to a raw, deeply human moment of apology and repentance. In the midst of this despair, a miracle: Max receives word that his original appeal for an Elysium pass has been granted. It’s revealed that Frey, having learned of his condition, leveraged her position and influence on Elysium to secure his access.

    With a final, selfless act of true redemption, Max, despite his rapidly fading life, allows the sick daughter to take his granted place on the next flight. As he prepares to accept his fate, on the brink of death, he receives one last message from Frey: she managed to secure another seat for him. He makes it to Elysium, is healed, and only then, fully recovered and with a renewed sense of purpose, does he truly engage with Spider. Together, they use their combined skills and knowledge from all of the earlier setbacks to systematically challenge the corrupt governments of Elysium, ultimately finding a way to bring down the life-saving med-beds to Earth, ushering in an era of true equality for all.

    This revised plot outline transforms Elysium into a more resonant and powerful story. It anchors the grand sci-fi themes in a deeply personal journey, replaces gratuitous action with earned conflict, and delivers a protagonist whose redemption feels genuinely impactful. Max’s fight becomes not just for himself, but born from his own moral failings and ultimate triumph over desperation, leading to a more satisfying and poignant resolution for a divided world.

    Thank you for reading!

    Ira

  • Jupiter Ascending (2015): The Arc That Could Have Been

    When Jupiter Ascending was first announced, expectations soared. A big-budget, original sci-fi epic from the Wachowskis — the visionary minds behind The Matrix — was rare in a landscape saturated with sequels, reboots, and comic book franchises. With its sprawling galactic dynasties, lavish visuals, and a star-studded cast, it had all the ingredients to be the next space opera phenomenon.

    Instead, it crashed under the weight of its own ambition.

    Critics called it convoluted, messy, and hollow. Audiences found it difficult to follow, emotionally distant, and ultimately forgettable. And while the movie has since found a small cult following, it never lived up to its potential. Beneath the noise, there was a decent story — clever sci-fi concepts about reincarnation, genetic dynasties, and the commodification of life — but that story never found its footing.

    And at the heart of that failure was one fatal flaw: Jupiter Jones herself.

    A Hero With No Journey

    Jupiter is introduced as a humble maid, scrubbing toilets and resenting her life. But rather than being bitter or restless, she’s strangely… gracious. Humble, kind, self-effacing — already displaying the maturity and wisdom of someone who’s supposedly going to grow. When she learns she’s not only special, but the genetic reincarnation of a space queen and rightful owner of Earth, she reacts with mild confusion, but little conflict. She declines a throne she didn’t ask for, gets whisked from place to place, and mostly lets others explain what’s happening.

    The issue isn’t that she’s unlikable — it’s that she’s underwritten. She’s passive, reactive, and never really seems to want anything, which makes it hard to invest in her journey. Her character arc is essentially flat. There’s no temptation, no internal struggle, and no transformation.

    In a genre that thrives on evolution — Luke learning the Force, Neo waking up from the Matrix, even Sarah Connor becoming the warrior her future demands — Jupiter doesn’t evolve. She just floats through.

    What Her Arc Should Have Been

    There’s a version of Jupiter Ascending that could have worked beautifully. And it starts by flipping Jupiter’s starting point.

    Instead of being humble and kind, Jupiter should begin the story resentful and selfish. Not cartoonishly evil — just a person beaten down by life, desperate for more. She hates her job. She envies the rich. She dreams of luxury. She’s tired of being invisible and underappreciated.

    So when someone tells her she’s galactic royalty? That she owns a planet and is heir to unimaginable wealth and power? She wants it. She grabs it. She believes she deserves it.

    This version of Jupiter would enter the world of the Abrasax siblings not as an outsider, but as someone who resonates with their twisted values. She’d feel at home with their decadence, their obsession with power, their casual disregard for “lesser” lives. For a while, she might even start to become one of them.

    But over time, she’d see the cost. She’d witness the exploitation behind the empire. She’d discover that the very luxury she once craved is built on suffering. And slowly, painfully, she’d begin to change.

    The climax wouldn’t be about rejecting a throne she never wanted. It would be about walking away from one she once desired — and finally choosing humility, responsibility, and connection over control.

    In the end, she wouldn’t just inherit the Earth. She’d become one with it. Grounded. Human. Changed.

    Why It Matters

    Great sci-fi stories don’t just wow us with visuals or elaborate lore — they anchor us with human truth. They give us heroes who reflect our flaws and show us how to rise above them.

    The tragedy of Jupiter Ascending is that it had the ingredients. The bones of an epic were all there — vast empires, moral complexity, even a spiritual subtext about identity and value. But without a strong, evolving character at the center, it never landed.

    If Jupiter had truly changed — if she had started selfish and learned selflessness through loss, through temptation, through revelation — she could have been one of the great sci-fi heroines.

    Instead, we got a queen with no crown, no fire, and no journey.

    Thank you for reading and following! 🙂

    Ira

  • Jupiter Ascending (2015): How a Different Opening Scene Could Have Saved the Movie

    When Jupiter Ascending was first announced, it sounded like exactly the kind of movie science fiction fans were starving for — an original, big-budget space opera not tied to a franchise, made by the Wachowskis, the same minds that gave us The Matrix. The premise promised intergalactic dynasties, flying cities, alien bounty hunters, and a secret war over the fate of Earth, all wrapped around the story of an ordinary woman who discovers she’s galactic royalty.

    But what we got was something far messier.

    The film is visually stunning and undeniably ambitious, but narratively overstuffed and archetypally totally confused. Important concepts are handed to us through long-winded exposition dumps — convenient shortcuts for storytelling sinners. Action scenes explode across the screen before the audience has any idea what’s at stake. And Jupiter herself feels like a passenger in her own story, learning what the plot means only after we’ve already been lost in it for 30 minutes. Unfortunately, that passivity never really leaves her — it lingers through almost the entire film. Even when she takes action independently, it doesn’t feel like she was meant to be in that position in the first place. But that’s a whole new subject for another article.

    It’s not that Jupiter Ascending lacks an interesting plot — it actually has some genuinely clever sci-fi ideas. The film imagines a universe where genetic recurrence determines inheritance, where interstellar corporations treat planets like crops, and where human life is just another resource to be traded. That’s rich material. But it needed a better launchpad — something to ground the audience, explain the rules of this universe, and set the tone before the gravity boots kicked in. Without any early context, the movie throws viewers into a galaxy crowded with unfamiliar factions, hierarchies, and motivations — winged bodyguards, lizard men, space dynasties — all without telling us what any of it means. The result isn’t wonder, it’s confusion. Instead of building intrigue, it overwhelms. We’re supposed to care about who’s chasing Jupiter before we even know why she matters — or who she really is. Bottom line: the story desperately needed a better opening.

    Alternative opening proposal

    Opening: A pair of bored alien bureaucrats sift through endless genetic profiles on their space computers, casually chuckling over a notorious war criminal who’s been reborn as a toddler on some backwater, low-tech planet. One jokes about how many times this particular troublemaker has come back, each time more ridiculous than the last — maybe this incarnation will finally teach him to behave. Then they scroll past more files: a famous ancient poet now working as a low-level fast-food cashier, a celebrated philosopher reincarnated as a karaoke lounge singer, and a galactic princess reborn as a particularly mischievous house cat or something like that. Each reincarnation is treated like a bureaucratic headache and source of dry humor. It’s a funny throwaway gag that hints at a vast bureaucracy tracking reincarnations across the galaxy, treating reincarnation more like annoying paperwork than cosmic destiny. Then, just as the scene leans into this dark humor, the tone abruptly shifts. A new alert pops up: a perfect genetic match for Seraphi Abrasax. The room goes silent. The stakes suddenly become real.

    Now that would be an opening!

    In just two minutes, the film could establish its rules, its tone, and its stakes — while also winking at the audience and deflating the “chosen one” trope in a way that sets us up to actually care when the lasers start flying. Here’s why that one opening joke could have made all the difference.

    Smash cut to Earth

    Jupiter Jones is scrubbing a toilet in a dim, fluorescent-lit bathroom, her face blank with routine. No dreamy narration, no mystical birth sequence, no hints at greatness — just rubber gloves, a sponge, and a dead-end job. It’s a hard cut from a sleek alien lab to a world of dull repetition and invisible lives. And that’s the point.

    By skipping the melodramatic birth scene and starting with the grit of Jupiter’s day-to-day boredom, the film would build a stronger emotional contrast. Boredom — or spiritual darkness — is one of the best places to begin character development towards her light.

    And with that kind of groundwork — a clear, humorous introduction to the universe’s rules, followed by a grounded and relatable look at Jupiter’s life — the story would have been far easier to follow and, more importantly, easier to enjoy.

    Thank you for reading,

    Ira

  • Prometheus (2012) – The alternative plot outline

    Why not take a chance and build the story around the least experienced crew member—the trainee biologist? Imagine a version of Prometheus where the heart of the story isn’t buried under philosophical ambiguity and half-baked mythology, but centered on a single, flawed human trying to prove himself.

    This young biologist would start out as a complete greenhorn—nervous, unsure, and unqualified. He signed up for all the wrong reasons: not out of scientific passion or existential curiosity, but because he had a crush on another crew member. Maybe he even lied on his application just to get on the mission. From the moment we meet him—washing his face in the mirror, trying to calm his nerves like Eminem in 8 Mile—we know he’s in over his head. Yet we’d see his vulnerability, and would connect with him emotionally. He’s not a hero—he’s us, dropped into something far bigger than we’re ready for.

    As the expedition begins, he lags behind while the others move with confidence and precision. He slows the team down, makes clumsy mistakes, and clearly doesn’t belong. His fear isn’t just for himself, but for the safety of the entire crew. And eventually, he does mess up—badly. He’s the one who touches the alien snake. Not out of idiocy, but out of desperation to prove he’s capable. The result? Others die, trying to help him, and he’s suspended, blamed, and rightfully chewed out.

    But as the mission spirals into chaos and even the experienced team members start dropping one by one, he’s somewhat exonerated. The crew is shrinking fast, and they need all hands on deck—even him. He gets another chance. This time, he’s determined. He begins to learn from his mistakes. He takes responsibility. Sooner or later, he’s forced to come clean—why he’s really here, what he lied about, and who he let down. He owns up to it all. He apologizes. And in the end, he redeems himself—not by surviving, but by saving at least one other crew member. Maybe even the last one standing—or the very person who doubted him most.

    This version of the story wouldn’t just be tighter—it would be earned. It would give us a meaningful arc, grounded decisions, and a protagonist whose journey we actually care about. And that, more than goo, Engineers, or mythology, is what Prometheus needed most.

    Ira

  • Prometheus (2012) – How To Lose An Audience in 5 seconds

    But don’t get me wrong—Prometheus starts strong. It does everything right to capture the audience’s attention: stunning visuals, a mysterious setup, grand philosophical questions about humanity’s origins. That’s no small feat, especially when your story hinges on the search for what’s essentially a cosmic MacGuffin. But then, in the space of five baffling seconds, it all unravels. A trained biologist, on a dangerous alien world, takes one look at a clearly hostile, hissing space cobra and decides it’s a good idea to pet it. Just like that, the spell is broken. Logic is gone, tension is gone, and all that’s left is the sad realization that the script was rushed or the writers weren’t fully in it.

    So let’s take a closer look at this biologist’s so-called character arc and break down how those events should have unfolded—if the writers had been more careful about preserving logic and scientific credibility.

    Trained biologist – An already complete character arc

    When we’re introduced to a trained biologist—or any trained professional, really—in a story like this, we expect that their character is already formed. They’ve gone through the grind, completed their education, faced challenges, and emerged on the other side with a level of mastery. That kind of background implies not just skill and confidence, but something even more important in a high-stakes, unfamiliar environment: intuition. They should recognize danger, assess unknown variables, and respond like someone who’s been in the field before—and it shouldn’t matter that they’re in a new environment.

    Fix #1 – The trainee

    So for this story to work, it should have been made explicitly clear—more than once—that this guy isn’t a seasoned expert, but rather a trainee, maybe even the junior member of a larger biology team. Someone who’s smart, yes, but still green. Someone who’s here to learn, not lead. That would at least justify some hesitation, some curiosity overpowering caution. Without that context, his actions come off not as human error, but as a complete failure of storytelling.

    Fix #2 – The Motivation to Risk

    Alternatively, we could just give him a clear, believable motivation for sticking his hand out in the first place. Earlier in the film, the team is shown collecting DNA samples from the environment—rocks, air, remnants of alien organisms. So why not establish that the biologist, of all people, is especially eager to collect data from a live specimen? If the creature appears passive or non-aggressive at first, his curiosity could override his caution—not because he’s stupid, but because he’s driven by scientific ambition. It’s still a risky move, but now it’s in character, and it adds tension instead of killing it.

    “It’s a scientific expedition — No weapons.”

    Even before the team sets foot on that alien world, the film drops a glaring red flag: somehow, a trillion-dollar spaceship is staffed by a ragtag group of naive, disorganized rookies who seem to have no clear protocols to follow. Case in point: Elizabeth Shaw, a medical doctor, somehow manages to overpower a trained soldier and orders him to lose the weapons.

    Now, I have to admit, part of me wanted to cheer. After all, I didn’t want another “shoot first, ask questions later, when it’s dead” sci-fi action flick full of needless firefights. So, for a moment, I gave the film a pass on this rather unorthodox command. But looking back, it only highlights how inconsistent the writing is: how does a doctor have the authority—and the muscle—to disarm a soldier on a potentially hostile alien planet? And what kind of “scientific expedition” sends people into the unknown without backup firepower or clear contingency plans?

    But beyond inconsistent writing, there was one specific story element I really want to highlight:

    The Search for Our Creator trope

    How believable is it that anyone on this crew would be willing to risk everything to search for our creators on a distant, alien planet—yet none of them show even a hint of spiritual belief or reverence? It’s as if not a single person on board is a churchgoer or someone who embraces the idea that humanity was created by a higher intelligence—what many would call God, often associated with creative power of love. Sure, a few characters casually mention Darwinian evolution, but where’s the religious perspective? Where’s the crew member who wrestles with faith, or represents the hope and fear that come with confronting the divine?

    Honestly, this felt like a huge missed opportunity. Splitting the crew into ideological camps—believers versus skeptics—could have added real tension and depth, turning the mission into a profound clash of worldviews, rather than just a sci-fi treasure hunt. Instead, the story skims over this rich thematic soil, leaving it oddly flat.

    But despite all its shortcomings—the baffling decisions, the missed thematic opportunities, and the uneven writing—Prometheus is still a fun movie to watch. But storywise, I just can’t rate it very high. For me, it lands at a 3 out of 10.

    Thank you for reading.

    Ira

  • Tomorrowland (2015) – The Upside-Down Promised Land Trope

    Tomorrowland is a prime example of a film shaped by the economic pressures of modern moviemaking—where scripts often suffer while visuals are dialed up to compensate. It’s the kind of movie that leaves you wondering, “What did I just witness?” Something feels undeniably off, but it’s hard to pin down exactly what. With its many plot holes, it creates a cognitive dissonance that—if you’re lucky—might fade over time. But if you’re not, it’ll quietly linger in the back of your mind, waiting for the moment you finally stop and try to make sense of it all.

    So, let’s try to make sense of it all. But first, let’s blow off some steam and point out some of the most ridiculous plot holes.

    Plot holes galore

    The Time-Stopping Gun. Athena whips out this amazing gadget in the comic shop—freezes time, saves the day, total showstopper. But then it gets destroyed and… apparently that was the only one in the universe? No backup, no mention, not even a nostalgic callback later, when things got rough.

    The rude Kick from the Car. Athena quite literally ejects Casey at Frank’s house and peels off without so much as a “good luck.” Why? Robot retaliation was not just likely—it was expected. Not only does it make zero sense, it was the perfect moment to flex her android superpowers or, I don’t know, maybe whip out that time-stopping or similar tech again?

    The Sercret Service worthy danger. What danger do Athena and Casey actually pose to Tomorrowland anyway? Are the Secret Service robots really expecting them to somehow invade and ruin the place with their ideology or so-called “specialness”?

    The Teleport with a rest stop. They literally already have a working teleportation machine… but somehow, it can’t get them to Tomorrowland. How hard would it have been to calibrate it to function like the dimension-shifting rocket module? Because no—the only option we had was to detour through a retro rocket under the Eiffel Tower.

    The 25-Year-Old Coke in the Fridge. So let me get this straight—no one’s checked whether the teleport receiver at the Eiffel Tower still works for at least 25 years, but when they got there Frank was 100% sure there’s still Coke chilling in the fridge?

    The Eiffel Tower rocket. Let me just ask you this—if the whole world was spiraling into fear about the apocalypse, wouldn’t global news of this awesome secret rocket launching from under the Eiffel Tower at least slightly shift the global conversation towards hope? Half of the world would probably react like: “It’s the governments, trying to save us.”

    Et cetera. Those head-scratchers are practically everywhere, too much of them to nitpick. So let’s rather shift gears and delve into the story’s core subject—the classic “promised land” trope, and point out why the way they handled it just doesn’t work.

    The Promised Land trope

    For the “promised land” trope to work on a spiritual or mythic level, it needs one crucial element: the promised land must be presented as a better, more elevated version of the protagonist’s current reality—something aspirational, a vision of growth or transcendence. It’s not just a place, but a state of becoming.

    In Tomorrowland, however, that dynamic gets turned upside-down. Instead of embarking on a journey of inner transformation, Casey’s arc feels more like an escape. The narrative frames Tomorrowland as a shining beacon of hope, yet the world she leaves behind—and her own internal beliefs about its future—aren’t truly reconciled. It doesn’t feel like she outgrows her doubt; it feels like she simply flees from it.

    So rather than a symbolic ascent into a higher plane, her arrival in Tomorrowland reads more like running away from the uncomfortable truths she still secretly believes. That lack of inner shift weakens the spiritual power of the trope. The promised land becomes a meaningless physical relocation rather than a personal revelation.

    So, how would we polish the outline?

    Alternative Tomorrowland Outline

    In a more emotionally grounded version of Tomorrowland, Casey should still be drawn toward the mysterious city of Tomorrowland. Her journey, full of promise and curiosity, leads her to a seemingly perfect, fully functioning utopia—not one already in decay. However, as she spends more time there, she begins to sense something isn’t right. The gleaming architecture and high-minded ideals don’t align with the emptiness she feels inside. Slowly, she realizes that Tomorrowland isn’t the answer she was looking for—it’s a distraction, an escape.

    The heart of the story should be about Casey confronting why she was so eager to believe in dystopian prophecies in the first place. Through the course of the film, she comes to understand that her pessimism is rooted in personal pain—perhaps from a falling out with her family or a sense of failure and alienation in the real world. Tomorrowland, then, becomes a metaphor for avoidance: a place she hoped would fix everything, only to learn that healing has to come from within.

    In the end, Casey chooses to return home—not because she’s given up on the future, but because she’s found the courage to face herself. Through reconciliation with her family and a renewed sense of hope, she begins to change—not just inwardly, but in how she sees the world. And through her eyes, we gradually catch glimpses of a brighter future starting to take shape.

    Why not make Athena a hybrid?

    Nothing leaves a worse taste in our mouths than a love that just can’t be. So why not make Athena a hybrid—part human, part machine? That one change alone would add a layer of tragic beauty to her relationship with Frank.

    The story with Frank should then go like this:

    Frank found his place in Tomorrowland as a child—brilliant, curious, and full of promise. But over time, he grew disillusioned and was eventually ejected—not for his cynicism, but because of a deeper, unspoken heartbreak. His falling out with Athena—a robot, yes, but one he had come to love—left scars on them both. She saw in his eyes the disappointment, the painful realization that she wasn’t human, and mistook it for hatred. Believing he no longer cared for her, she quietly influenced others to have him removed based on some lies. Frank, in turn, believed Athena and the rest had turned against him.

    Now, years later, Frank is married and seemingly settled, but the grumpiness remains—a sign that part of him is still unresolved. With Casey’s arrival and her infectious optimism, something in him begins to thaw. Together, they find a way back to Tomorrowland—Casey seemingly to escape the world, Frank to confront the past. Because of the fallout, they just might find—like the original idea—Tomorrowland in shambles. Kicking out Frank led to a chain reaction and now they have to reconcile first, for the things to settle back in place.

    And then, In the place he once called home, Frank finally opens up. He confesses to Athena that he did like her—that he always had. She, in turn, reassures him that despite her programming, her feelings for him were real. But how the hell would a robot know how to love? Athena explains that she’s not just a machine—she’s a hybrid, with fully human-functional systems, programmed to work with biology and evolve emotionally. She may have been built, but her heart grew on its own. In that moment, Frank doesn’t just find redemption. He finds peace.

    Something like that for example. Thank you for reading!

    Ira

  • Baywatch (2017) — Plot Overboard: Where Were the Lifeguards? Can We Save It?

    The plot of Baywatch (2017) was supposed to be a fun update of a campy ’90s TV show, but it ends up drowning in its own vanity. The film fails to deliver on almost every level: the character dynamics don’t feel right, the structure is all over the place, and the character arcs either go nowhere or offer little emotional payoff. What could have been a breezy, self-aware summer comedy sinks under its scattered tone and its obsession with style over substance.

    One of the film’s core problems is its confused sense of who the lead actually is. Zac Efron’s Matt Brody is set up as a classic redemption arc, but the story constantly sidelines him in favor of Dwayne Johnson’s Mitch, whose overpowering presence turns the narrative into an identity crisis. Is this Brody’s journey or Mitch’s showcase? The film never quite picks a lane, and as a result, neither character fully lands.

    If on the other hand, we imagine Brody firmly in the lead and Mitch sidelined into a mentor archetype, the story immediately feels more grounded. This structure not only offers a clearer character arc but also creates room for meaningful growth, tension, and emotional payoff.

    A disgraced athlete

    The film could have opened with a far sharper sense of character by introducing Brody alone on a sunny pier, trying to hustle a few bucks by challenging local swimmers to a show-off race—offering them a ten-second head start just to make it “fair.” It’s a small, slightly pathetic moment, but a perfect window into a disgraced Olympic star clinging to ego and spectacle.

    Mitches intro

    As Brody crosses the finish line and pockets a handful of bills—clearly small change—the camera shifts to Mitch, perched confidently atop the lifeguard tower. Observing Brody’s antics with a mix of amusement and disdain, Mitch dismissively calls him “pathetic” to Summer, then casually invites her to join the upcoming trials.

    The inspiration/motivation in Summer

    As Brody passes the tower, Summer smirks and teases, “How much did you make?” Their playful banter reveals Brody’s interest in her and naturally leads to his decision to join the lifeguard trials, providing a clear and personal motivation for his growth.

    The mentor is reserved

    Brody performs surprisingly well in the trials—still rough around the edges, but undeniably skilled. Yet Mitch remains hesitant, unconvinced by Brody’s attitude. It’s only when Mitch’s boss steps in, that Brody is reluctantly accepted onto the team.

    The fallout

    Trying too hard to impress Summer and look cool, Brody jeopardizes Mitch’s quiet investigation into drug activity. His reckless behavior blows their cover, creating real tension with Mitch and forcing Brody to face the consequences of his ego.

    The begging

    When Mitch threatens to kick him off the team, Brody doesn’t apologize—he begs. Listing off why he needs this chance, it’s a raw, desperate moment that, unlike the original film’s rushed apology, keeps the tension alive.

    The reckoning

    When a second fallout occurs and Mitch is ready to cut Brody loose for good, his boss steps in and blocks the decision, citing protocol and pressure from above. Frustrated and feeling undermined, Mitch chooses to walk away instead. Which would be in accordance with the original idea.

    The struggle and repentance

    Mitch’s departure hits Brody hard. With the team fractured and pressure mounting, he struggles to hold things together—and fails. It’s a harsh reality check that strips away his ego. For the first time, Brody isn’t trying to impress anyone; he just wants to make things right.

    The apology

    It’s only after Brody finally offers a sincere apology—not just for messing up, but for the kind of person he’s been—that the team fully accepts him. With trust finally earned, they regroup to take down the drug operation. And when Brody ends up trapped in an underwater cage during the final showdown, Mitch’s return lands perfectly—not as a savior, but as a partner stepping back in at the right moment.

    The return of the goddess

    Summer’s interest in Brody only becomes genuine once he has truly changed. Their eventual kiss isn’t just a typical romantic moment—it’s the natural outcome of Brody’s growth, his earned trust from the team, and the real connection they’ve built. This balance gives the story its emotional heart, making the romance feel meaningful rather than forced, and providing a satisfying conclusion to both the character arcs and the overall narrative.

    Ira

  • Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny (2023): The most underwhelming ending in history of franchises

    Indiana Jones and the Dial of Destiny delivers everything fans could hope for — thrilling action sequences, nostalgic callbacks, and Harrison Ford’s outstanding performance as an aging yet still spirited Indy. The film balances humor, history, and heart, successfully transporting viewers on one last globe-trotting quest filled with mystery and excitement. For the most part, it’s a satisfying addition to the legendary franchise.

    However, considering this was meant to be Harrison Ford’s final outing as Indiana Jones, the ending was as underwhelming as a birthday party where the host drops the cake—with the candles still lit. Instead of a powerful farewell that honors the character’s legacy, the movie opts for a quiet, almost anticlimactic conclusion. Indy’s fate wasn’t his to decide — Helena knocks him out and drags him back to the present, while the final emotional reconciliation with Marion feels orchestrated off-screen, stripping Indy of any real agency in his own story.

    This lack of meaningful closure undercuts the emotional depth the franchise has carefully built around its beloved hero over five legendary installments. Indiana Jones — a character defined by his courage and decisive action — is reduced to passivity when he should be at his most engaged and reflective. For a franchise that has thrilled audiences for decades and left an unforgettable mark on cinema history, this ending feels like a surprisingly flat finale.

    So the question is: what would a more meaningful ending look like? The filmmakers actually had an incredible opportunity to deliver a deeply emotional and satisfying farewell — one that truly honors Indiana Jones’s legacy — right there in the palm of their hands.

    A Suggested Rewrite for a More Fulfilling Ending

    Imagine if, instead of wanting to stay in ancient Sicily just for the sake of it, Indy confides in the great Archimedes that he’s really trying to escape the chaos in his life — especially the troubles with his wife. Archimedes then becomes a voice of reason and heart, counseling Indy:

    “It is love that truly bends time and amends the past. Your journey isn’t over until you choose to heal what you left behind.”

    This moment would give Indy the emotional clarity and agency to decide to return to the present, not out of force, but out of hope and love. It would also transform the Dial of Destiny from a mere plot device into a destined symbol of his personal redemption and healing.

    Such an ending would provide powerful and poetic closure — showing that after a lifetime of thrilling adventures and chasing legendary artifacts with the power to bend time and space, Indy’s greatest discovery isn’t a material treasure, but the power of love and the courage to express it.

    Ira

  • Jurassic World Dominion (2022) – they sure stomped on the plot

    When Jurassic World arrived into theaters in 2015, it wasn’t perfect, but it had enough awe, nostalgia, and teeth to win audiences over. But with each sequel, the franchise’s score — and storytelling quality — has taken a noticeable dive. By the time Dominion arrives, the dinosaurs are still running, but the plot feels like it’s out of breath. The premise of humans and dinosaurs coexisting had real potential, but Dominion squanders it with disjointed storytelling, hollow villains, and the baffling choice to turn a once-promising character like Maisie into little more than a tool to move the story along.

    It’s always sad to see a beloved franchise lose its way. So instead of dwelling on Dominion’s missteps, let’s imagine the story it could’ve told — one that honors the legacy and gives the dinosaurs (and especially characters) the spotlight they deserve.

    For example, let’s center it around the classic girl-meets-boy dynamic, which I don’t think we’ve seen yet with the dinos.

    Lose the opening data dump

    First of all, lose the data dump the the beginning. Nothing kills momentum faster than front-loading a story with walls of exposition. Trust the audience to catch up — let the world unfold naturally, through action, tension, and character. If you have to explain everything upfront, maybe the story’s not ready to be told.

    Ramp up the intensity

    The idea of giant beasts roaming freely through cities completely kills the tension the franchise built up. Instead, imagine dinosaurs contained in secure reservations, with tight monitoring and red alerts blaring whenever one gets too close to humans. That controlled danger keeps the stakes high without turning the story into a chaotic free-for-all.

    Split the world in two camps

    One pushing for strict restrictions and safety protocols, and the other—think Greenpeace-style activists—fighting to give the dinosaurs more freedom. This clash creates real conflict and raises ethical questions, grounding the story in something meaningful instead of just random chaos.

    Increase the debate

    A dinosaur, finally freed by the activists, accidentally stumbles into a town, destroying houses and tragically killing some people. Suddenly, the debate isn’t just theoretical — it’s urgent, messy, and heartbreaking. This forces both sides to confront the real consequences of their choices.

    Give us protagonist who is human/flawed

    Which means starting out fearful. Someone who flinches at every roar, hides when danger comes, and wants nothing more than to stay safe. Maybe because of some bad experience in the past. But slowly, moment by moment, they grow. Not because the fear disappears, but because they learn to move through it. By the end, they don’t just survive the world of dinosaurs — they earn their place in it. A teenage girl would make that part most appropriate with her archetypal scream.

    Make protagonist live her normal life

    Since the premise is a world where humans live alongside dinosaurs, let the protagonist actually live in it. Let her go to school, deal with curfews triggered by a nearby raptor sighting, complain about dino-proof lockers, and maybe awkwardly meet a crush while ducking behind a reinforced bus stop. Show us the everyday normal in this new world — the blend of awe, fear, and routine. That’s where the story starts to feel real.

    The magician archetype

    Although fearful, she’s still magical, like the magician archetype. Have her stand in the middle of Grandma’s doorway with a big gift for her birthday. She smiles sincerely, heart in her eyes, sparkling with potential. She is the gift.

    Grandma: “What’s in it?”
    Her: “It’s the dino radar. ‘Cause you live out here…”

    Also, what’s a more commonplace event than dinner at Grandma’s, complete with an intense debate about the new circumstances?

    Make her boyfriend the opposite

    Her crush? He’s the opposite — bold, fearless, the kind of guy who sneaks into restricted zones just to get a little closer to the dinosaurs, grinning the whole time and take selfies. But it’s not just for show. He likes them — really respects them. Behind the daredevil exterior is someone who feels connected to these creatures, and that’s what draws him toward the environmentalist camp.

    Mirror their differences on the world stage

    The divide between her and her boyfriend is echoed on a larger scale — the government is split too. One side pushes for aggressive control: culling populations, tightening borders, treating dinosaurs as dangerous pests. The other argues for coexistence and protection, pointing to the black market and poaching as the real threat.

    In his eyes she should see who she is

    She takes the cautious path, pushing for stricter control over the dinosaurs. But the harder she fights, the more she sees it’s hurting him — and, in turn, hurting her.

    Have them try to make love in the reinforced cabin in the middle of woods, while she jumps at every little sound outside.

    She’s also too controlling in their relationship, which pulls them further and further apart.

    Introduce the villains, her shadow self

    He spots a small, untagged dino in the woods and convinces her to follow. She’s tense, urging caution, but he’s curious. Suddenly, a tranquilizer shot rings out — poachers. They watch, hidden, as the hunters capture the dino and load it into a truck. He insists they follow them to the conceiled black market.

    The break up

    He expects her to help him free the animals. But she hesitates — it’s too risky, too reckless. They argue. He accuses her of being afraid to do what’s right; she says he’s too impulsive to see the danger. Neither backs down. The tension snaps, and they go their separate ways.

    The break down

    She tries to return to normal—school, curfews, routine—but can’t shake what happened. One day, she quietly tells her friend everything. As she talks, the weight of it hits, and she breaks down. Her friend just listens. It helps, a little.

    Government wins culling legislation

    The control side wins — legislation passes to begin widespread culling. Officials call it a safety measure. News outlets celebrate stability, others are appalled. To her, it feels hollow. A pyrrhic victory. The fear won, but at what cost? The guilt sits heavy: she argued for control, and now it’s happening — not with caution, but with force.

    Then she meets him – the dino

    One day, after some sobbing she is sitting alone near the woods. From the trees, a dinosaur steps out, slow and cautious. She freezes, unsure, but doesn’t scream. The creature doesn’t threaten. Instead, it stops, watching her. Then, almost impossibly, it lets out a gentle compassionate sound.

    She looks up, meeting its eyes. She doesn’t feel afraid. And she loves what she sees staring back. The sparking eyes of her new best friend.

    The sense of freedom and the contrast

    One day, the dinosaur seems unusually calm, almost waiting. She climbs on its back, and it gently carries her to a hilltop. They watch the sunset in silence. It’s peaceful, but the new culling law hangs over her. She’s grateful for the moment — and quietly unsure how many more there will be. They fell asleep with his head in her lap.

    Collapse the world on her head

    Government agents discover she’s hiding the dinosaur. Suddenly, her quiet world collapses — they’re hunting her now, and so are the black-market hunters. She’s caught between two dangerous forces, forced to run and protect the one creature she cares about most.

    She’s determined to fight back

    Determined to fight back, she teams up with her dinosaur companion. Along the way, they gain the unexpected help of a nearby T-Rex, whose presence turns the tide in their favor. Together, they sneak into the black market to free the captured animals — all while staying hidden from government agents. At the last minute her boyfriend magically joins her to help with the efforts.

    Let the dino go, also her boyfriend

    At the end, she knows her dinosaur friend can’t stay—too dangerous for both of them. With a heavy heart, she says goodbye as it prepares to run off with the herd. It’s not just a farewell, but a release.

    She says goodbye to her boyfriend as well, giving him complete freedom with no heavy heart at all.

    She gets arrested and held at the police station for a while.

    They both come back

    One day, government agents search her apartment for evidence of the dinosaur. Suddenly, her dino friend appears in the backyard. The agents raise their guns, but she steps in front of the dinosaur to protect it. They threaten to arrest her. Just then, her boyfriend arrives with legal papers granting her an exception, forcing the agents to back down.

    Meanwhile, back in the government, the appeal succeeds—officials agree to postpone the culling. It’s a temporary victory, giving her and the dinosaurs more time, and a sign that change might still be possible.

    She and her boyfriend might then just for what it’s worth – optimistically ride the dinosaur into the sunset.

    Ira

  • The Suicide Squad 2016 – Or rather “Suicide inducing” – can it be fixed?

    The concept of imprisoned criminals working for the government held great promise but was largely wasted. Like many big-budget productions of this era, the movie fell victim to corporate pressure in its scriptwriting, directing, and editing.

    The end result was a mess—especially storywise. The plot felt rushed and disjointed, trying to juggle too many characters and conflicting villain arcs without giving any of them enough depth. Instead of a cohesive narrative, the film ended up as a patchwork of chaotic scenes that failed to build real tension or emotional investment. So, could it have been put together more coherently?

    Without the corporate pressure and with a bit more diligent storytelling, the fix almost presents itself by itself.

    Lose the opening data dump

    Instead of a smooth setup, the film jumps into rapid-fire character introductions, almost like you’re flipping through a deck of trading cards. This rushed approach strips the Squad of the chance to develop natural, spontaneous motivations or chemistry, making their actions feel forced and disconnected rather than earned.

    Raise the “suicide” stakes

    The film never really shows why the team is called the Suicide Squad—after all, these prisoners are supposed to be expendable, sent on deadly missions with little chance of survival. Yet, surprisingly, hardly any of them actually die in the movie, which undermines the sense of real danger and stakes. Thankfully, this crucial aspect was better addressed in the soft sequel, where the expendability of the characters finally felt real and carried real weight.

    Pump up the Joker character

    The problem with the Joker character was that the writers just left him hanging in the air. There’s no real sense of who he is or why anyone would follow him. Now imagine if they had shown a scene with him in a room full of people—each one deranged in their own way but still likable (important), dressed wildly, laughing like him, completely devoted. The Joker cult. Suddenly, he makes sense. That kind of chaotic atmosphere would have given his presence weight and purpose, turning him from a cringe-worthy oddity into a truly menacing force.

    The Joker isn’t scary just because he’s crazy—he’s scary because his madness spreads. It infects people. That’s what makes him dangerous.

    Show Joker outsmarting everybody

    Let’s face it — there probably shouldn’t be a Joker movie without an intense scene where he outsmarts his opponents like nobody else can. The Joker’s genius lies not just in chaos, but in his unpredictable intellect and cunning.

    He isn’t scary because he is loud and obnoxious, but because he knows something you don’t.

    Streighten up the enchantress shadow archetype

    The film confused the Enchantress’s shadow archetype by turning her into a generic destruction-driven villain rather than embracing the classic manipulative enchantress role. Instead of being a subtle, seductive force who bends others to her will, she’s reduced to a blunt, world-ending threat. Straightening this out would mean highlighting her powers of mind control and manipulation, making her danger more psychological and nuanced rather than just explosive and destructive.

    Give enchantress a proper motivation

    Her motivation should focus on conquering a world that has forgotten her, seeking to be worshiped forever rather than just destroying everything. This desire for power and recognition would make her a more complex and driven villain, rooted in pride and a need for lasting influence.

    Turn Joker culists into enchanted army

    The crucial fix would be to make Joker—the one who doesn’t bend to noone—fall under the Enchantress’s spell. This twist would not only deepen his character but also transform his group of cultists into a truly enchanted, dangerous army. Instead of the brainless cannon fodder army that we’ve witnessed. It would also give Harley Quinn a much richer relationship with Joker, caught between her devotion to him and the supernatural influence controlling him.

    This way, the Joker would have had a proper place in the story. Without it, he basically came across as a pathetic nerd trying to sneak into a cool high school party.

    Make Squad members repent for their sins

    …before you award them their full powers.

    It was such a wasted opportunity. Who better to bring to the point of repentance than disgraced prisoners—outcasts with blood on their hands and regrets buried deep? The story could have allowed them to confront their pasts, wrestle with their inner demons, and gradually earn not just power, but purpose. Only then could the universe, the writers, and—most importantly—the audience in their minds truly reward them with their full expression. Without that journey, their transformations feel unearned, and the emotional payoff never lands.

    In the end, Suicide Squad had all the right ingredients: a bold premise, iconic characters, and a chance to turn a group of villains into something oddly heroic. But under the weight of corporate meddling, confused motivations, and missed opportunities, it collapsed into noise. The tragedy isn’t that it failed—but that it could have been something truly unique.

    Let’s just say that Harley’s smeared lipstick is a story element so I can grade it 2/10.

    Ira