Arcaneya

Category: Story MD

  • Frozen II (2019): Reimagining the Most Natural Continuation of Events for the Sequel

    Frozen 2 was, by most accounts, a visual and musical triumph. The animation dazzled with sweeping landscapes and intricate details, while the songs ranged from whimsical to emotionally resonant, offering moments that lingered long after the credits rolled. Yet, beneath this polished surface, the story often felt disjointed, wandering through plot points that lacked foreshadowing or grounding, and leaving audiences—both young and old—scrambling to connect the dots.

    In a previous article, we pointed out the inconsistencies we noticed, and in this one, we chose to reimagine the sequel’s events in a way that feels natural and coherent, building directly on the foundations laid in the first film. In this version, Elsa’s journey is anchored in her newfound “love powers,” which literally nurture the kingdom, and her challenges unfold logically from her actions and choices. Along the way, familiar characters like Olaf and Anna continue to provide warmth and humor, while new allies, like a comically loyal animated scarecrow, offer fresh stakes and perspective.

    By restructuring the story, we aim to preserve the charm and spectacle of Frozen 2 while giving its characters arcs that feel earned, its conflicts that feel plausible, and its magical world that remains breathtaking without losing narrative sense.

    Act 1 – The Kingdom of Love

    1. Opening Growth of Arendelle – Elsa’s new “love powers” nourish the kingdom: crops grow, new homes rise, and people migrate in from nearby lands. The city bustles like never before.
    2. Olaf starts as a bucket of water – With a “don’t touch” sign attached to it and coals and carrots beside. Maybe he sings “in the summer” with dull bubbly voice.
    3. Elsa Animates the Scarecrow – While blessing farmland, Elsa accidentally brings a scarecrow to life. He is clumsy, loyal, and humorous — a grounded companion to Olaf, who later reappears from his bucket-of-water state. Love always adds to the company.
    4. Elsa’s Burden – Elsa panics when she realizes she cannot give attention and love to every new subject. Anna calms her, reminding her not to try carrying the whole kingdom alone.
    5. Envy of Neighbors – Surrounding kingdoms, losing citizens to Arendelle’s prosperity, watch with resentment. Whispers of jealousy begin to spread.
    6. Anna and Kristoff’s Engagement – Amid the growth, Anna and Kristoff get engaged, preparing for a wedding. Their joyful plans will contrast with Elsa’s growing anxieties.
    7. A Prince Arrives – Elsa meets a visiting prince (possibly from “Weaseltown” or a relative of Hans). She is intrigued, flustered, and slowly becomes obsessed, neglecting her kingdom.

    Act 2 – The Freeze of the Heart

    1. Neglect and Shadows – Elsa, distracted by the prince, pays little attention to the creeping rise of shady figures in the kingdom. Crime and unrest take root.
    2. Elsa’s Harsh Measures – Trying to “fix” things quickly, Elsa lashes out with her ice powers against troublemakers — creating collateral damage. This terrifies her people and alienates the prince.
    3. The Prince Breaks Her Heart – Shocked by her severity, the prince leaves her. Elsa’s heart shatters, and a cruel winter suddenly returns, spreading across Arendelle and beyond.
    4. Olaf Returns – Since it’s winter again, Anna takes Olaf’s water bucket onto the balcony, pours it into the snow, and Olaf re-forms, shivering but alive.
    5. Elsa Withdraws – Elsa seals herself inside her castle, freezing over the doors. She rules only by enchanted scrolls, dropped daily from her balcony. Fear spreads among her subjects.
    6. The Army in Retreat – Arendelle’s soldiers abandon their posts, preferring their home fireplaces over Elsa’s cold commands. The kingdom grows weaker and more fearful.
    7. Jealous Kingdoms Seize Opportunity – The envious neighbors unite to invade the new farmlands, claiming they will “liberate Arendelle from the witch.” With Elsa locked away, they invade the city.
    8. Anna puts on ice climbing gear – And climbs the frozen castle to warn Elsa.

    Act 3 – Exile and Redemption

    1. Elsa Driven Out – The invaders storm Arendelle, and Elsa flees into exile. They occupy the city but are frustrated that the land remains frozen solid, useless for farming.
    2. Anna and Friends Search – Anna, Kristoff, Olaf, and Scarecrow slip out, determined to find Elsa. On the way, they stop briefly at the familiar sauna shack, seeking guidance. The castle turns out empty.
    3. The Invaders’ Realization – The occupiers of Arendelle admit they’ll never gain fertile land as long as Elsa lives. They send an execution squad to track her down and finish her.
    4. Elsa in the Border Town – Elsa arrives at the isolated town, where the mayor shelters her amid complaints from the townsfolk about her lingering winter.
    5. A Mysterious Snowy Town – From the castle, Anna, Kristoff, Olaf, and the scarecrow spot an unusually snowy town far in the distance. They realize Elsa may have fled there, setting up the next leg of their journey.
    6. The Race Across the Blizzard – Anna and her companions trek through a brutal storm, struggling against the cold. It becomes a race: who will reach Elsa first, the assassins or her friends?
    7. Mayor’s Scheme – The mayor, attracted to Elsa, considers abducting or exploiting her powers for his advantage triggering her self-reflection.
    8. Elsa Confronted – In the border town, the executioners arrive just as Elsa begins to understand the harm her neglect has caused.
    9. The Apology – Anna reaches Elsa first. Elsa breaks down, admitting: “I was so obsessed with him that I neglected my kingdom. I’m so sorry.” Her tears thaw the winter and restore balance and also enchant the mayor who gets rid of executioners for her.
    10. Elsa’s Return to Arendelle – Elsa returns, publicly taking responsibility for her failings. The people forgive her and rally to her side.
    11. Repelling the Invaders – United, Arendelle’s citizens expel the greedy neighboring kingdoms. Attempts to manually thaw or conquer the land fail, proving Elsa’s unique role.
    12. Final Balance – Elsa recommits to ruling with compassion. Anna prepares for her wedding. Olaf and the scarecrow provide comic relief, symbolizing the kingdom’s resilience and grounding.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Frozen (2013): Born With Icy Powers For No Reason? Let’s Fix That Origin Story

    When Frozen first premiered, it swept the world like a snowstorm. The visuals dazzled, the characters charmed, and the songs became instant cultural staples. With over four billion combined YouTube views, “Let It Go” in particular etched itself into pop culture history. But if someone pauses to look more closely, Frozen has quite a few bones to pick—story choices that undercut the depth and coherence the film could have had.

    There’s more than enought arguments to love Frozen. But it’s also fair to admit that beneath the glitter lies some structural confusion: Elsa’s unexplained “special” powers, a hit song with mixed messaging, Hans’s last-minute heel turn, the parents’ sudden shipwreck death, and a resolution where love is pulled out of thin air. The film remains enjoyable, but these choices ask the audience to accept rather than believe.

    This time, let’s focus on grounding Elsa’s powers, because doing so not only gives her arc more weight but also helps smooth out several of the other issues.

    The Problem of the Special One

    The film tells us Elsa was simply “born with powers,” which immediately casts her as the special one. While this works on a surface level, it disconnects her from the audience. Why her? Why ice? Why danger? Without context, her powers feel like a storytelling shortcut, not a meaningful part of the world.

    And this disconnect bleeds into the story’s emotional core. When “Let It Go” arrives, the audience is asked to cheer for Elsa’s freedom. In the moment, the song works—she seems in control, claiming her identity at last. But as soon as her powers spiral out of control again, the message turns contradictory. Should we celebrate her letting loose, or worry about the danger? The foundation never feels solid.

    Inheriting the Frozen Heart

    A more coherent way to explain Elsa’s powers is to root them in her family. Imagine the King and Queen not as warm, gentle rulers cut short by tragedy, but as harsh sovereigns with frozen hearts of their own—ruling through fear and cold authority.

    Every child, in this reimagined lore, brings magic into the world. Elsa, born to rulers with frozen hearts, would inherit that curse alongside her natural magic. The result is her extraordinary but unstable ice powers: a fusion of legacy and gift, of inheritance and magic. Suddenly, Elsa is no longer arbitrarily special. She is a mirror of her parents’ corruption and the living embodiment of what it means to carry a frozen heart.

    A Shaman’s Warning and a Sister’s Counterbalance

    Fearful of what Elsa might become, the King and Queen would consult the rock trolls. A shaman tells them the truth: “The heart can only be cured from within.” That line alone reframes the story’s central conflict. It shifts the focus away from hiding, suppressing, or fearing Elsa’s abilities and onto the real question: will she find the way and strength to thaw her own heart?

    In this moment of fear and honesty, the rulers glimpse their own reflection. For once, they wonder if the problem is not Elsa but themselves. They pray for another child, a chance at redemption. The universe responds with Anna.

    Anna becomes the counterbalance, her warmth and boundless love a natural antidote to the cold legacy her family carries. She is not just comic relief or blind optimism—she is thematically essential, the one who can thaw where fear has frozen.

    A Death With Consequence

    The original film sends the King and Queen to their graves in a shipwreck. The event feels random, leaving only trauma behind. Worse still, the parents are portrayed as kind and innocent, which makes their deaths not just sad but oddly disconnected from the story’s logic.

    In this reimagining, their deaths gain purpose. The rulers either regress into their frozen ways and are struck down by the universe—no more frozen hearts at the helm—or, more interestingly, they begin to change but cannot escape their past. A subject who remembers only their tyranny sabotages their voyage, sealing their fate. The latter option keeps their arc complex: rulers who tried, however briefly, to thaw, but who could not outrun the legacy of their frozen hearts.

    Why This Change Helps Everything Else

    By rooting Elsa’s powers in her parents’ frozen hearts, the story gains coherence it otherwise lacks. Her magic is no longer random but symbolic, tied to history, legacy, and the burden of family. Anna’s warmth becomes more than youthful cheer—it is the universe’s deliberate answer to a kingdom shrouded in ice. And the parents’ deaths stop being an unearned accident and become part of the moral weight of the story.

    This single change would also smooth out the film’s other rough edges. “Let It Go” might become less contradictory and seen as Elsa wanting to free herself from her inheritance. Hans’s betrayal could be better foreshadowed as the old ways of the kingdom returning. And Elsa’s final revelation—that love thaws the frozen heart—would feel earned, because thawing hearts was the story’s foundation from the very beginning.

    Frozen remains a modern classic, but by thawing its own origins, the story could have been stronger still. This reimagining shows how even a small correction—grounding Elsa’s powers in her family’s frozen hearts—could ripple out to melt away many of the other bones fans still pick at today.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Artemis Fowl (2020): A Criminal Mastermind Needed the Proper Origin Story

    When Disney adapted Artemis Fowl to the screen, the promise was bold: the story of a twelve-year-old genius criminal mastermind, pitting his intellect against the hidden world of the fairies. But instead of a razor-sharp cat-and-mouse tale, the movie offered a muddled spectacle. Fairies appeared as high-tech soldiers, their magic reduced to gadgets. Artemis acted less like a manipulator and more like a wide-eyed boy thrust into an adventure. And yet, in the final scene, he called himself a “criminal mastermind.” The words rang hollow. Nothing in his journey justified that title.

    The problem was fundamental: the movie could not decide who was right or wrong, who acted justly or unjustly. The fairies seemed villainous one moment and sympathetic the next. Artemis was painted as sincere, even likable, befriending a fairy to reach a happy ending. But sincerity and friendship are the exact opposites of what the premise promised. By softening him, the film robbed Artemis of his defining arc.

    Why the Book Worked and the Movie Did Not

    In Eoin Colfer’s book, Artemis is no hero. He is manipulative, arrogant, and willing to cross moral lines. The tension comes from watching someone so young act with the cunning of a hardened criminal. Readers are pulled between admiration and unease. In the movie, however, this edge was dulled. By making Artemis sympathetic from the start, the story never earned his final declaration of being a “criminal mastermind”. The result was tonal dissonance — a happy ending wearing the mask of a dark one.

    Giving Artemis the Proper Path

    If Artemis Fowl is to conclude his story as a criminal mastermind, the tale must lead him there naturally. It begins by recognizing that intelligence alone is not enough. A boy who is smart from the start but untested needs flaws that put him at risk. For Artemis, arrogance and smugness would be his blind spots — the very traits that land him in trouble as he sets out to rescue his father.

    But to make that rescue matter, his father must not be an innocent victim. Artemis Sr. should be guilty of something immoral, perhaps stealing something sacred or breaking a pact with the fairies. At first, Artemis Jr. would not know this, believing his father’s capture unjust. That belief fuels his determination, even as his arrogance blinds him to the dangers ahead.

    The Dark Revelation

    At his lowest point, Artemis Jr. would be captured himself. This is where most heroes are humbled, forced to learn humility and rely on others. But Artemis is not most heroes. In captivity, he would uncover the truth: his father’s plight was the result of criminal acts. There is no lawful or noble way out. If he wishes to save his father — and himself — he must resort to the tools of a true mastermind: manipulation, lying, and promise-breaking.

    This is the moment the title “criminal mastermind” becomes earned. Not a boy playing at cleverness, but one who makes the conscious choice to weaponize his intellect in morally shady ways. Where his father faltered by trying to play both sides, Artemis Jr. doubles down, committing fully to the criminal path.

    Reimagining the Fairies

    To polish the story further, the confusion around the “tech fairies” must go. The movie’s choice to turn fairies into gadget-wielding soldiers was lazy — a shortcut to ride on familiar lore while gutting it of meaning. Instead, the fairies should be written as something richer: hybrids of fairy and human, or perhaps the remnants of an ancient race of intelligent builders who once shaped the great monuments of the world. Sensitive to sunlight, they live underground, emerging only at night. This grounds their culture in mystery and depth, making them more than props for the plot.

    The Proper Ending

    Such a reimagined story would not need to force a happy resolution. Instead, it would allow Artemis to stand where the book intended him: victorious, yes, but tainted. He wins by cheating the rules, not by befriending his enemies. He leaves not a boy pretending to be a mastermind, but a mastermind forged by revelation and choice — the boy who chose the shadows when the light failed him.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Land of the Lost (2009): Amplifying the Hardly Noticed Common Thread

    Land of the Lost (2009) had every ingredient for a wild, inventive comedy. Dinosaurs, alternate dimensions, strange ape-men, Will Ferrell at the center — it should have been a playground of absurdity with enough charm to make it stick. But instead of coherence, what the audience got was a string of unrelated gags, laced with toilet humor that felt cheap and out of place. The promise of something imaginative devolved into randomness, leaving both critics and audiences scratching their heads. The missing piece? A clear narrative thread that could have anchored all the chaos.

    Marshall’s Desperate Need for Redemption

    That missing spine was right there in the premise but never explored: Dr. Rick Marshall’s desperation to be taken seriously again. The movie opens with him ridiculed on the Matt Lauer show, humiliated to the point that his career collapses. And yet, the film never truly builds on this humiliation as the emotional engine. Imagine instead if everything Marshall did from that moment onward was driven by his burning need to redeem himself. The tachyon amplifier wouldn’t just be a silly prop; it would be his lifeline back to dignity, his proof that he wasn’t a fraud.

    The Land of the Lost as His Internal Battlefield

    In this reimagined version, the alternate universe isn’t just a bizarre playground — it is the battleground of Marshall’s psyche. Every danger he encounters, every failure and absurdity, is an expression of his terror that Matt Lauer might be right, that he will never climb out of ridicule. Dinosaurs don’t chase him simply because they exist; they chase him because he’s affraid he will never get back on Matt Lauer show to redeem himself. The Sleestaks are not random villains but guardians of his self-doubt, blocking him at every turn. Even the comic ape-man Chaka becomes a mirror of Marshall’s irrational devotion, showing how foolish he looks when he worships the idea of revenge on Lauer above everything else.

    The Clash of Realities: Marshall vs. Lauer

    Here lies the heart of the story: the negativity Marshall experiences in this bizarre world isn’t just bad luck. It is the clash of two realities — his desperate vision of returning to vindicate himself, and Matt Lauer’s counter-reality where Marshall will always be a fraud. Every setback, every ridiculous detour, is the pull of Lauer’s reality pressing down on him. The audience could see the comedy not just as slapstick, but as the painful tug-of-war of Marshall’s pride trying to rewrite the world against the weight of his humiliation. This interpretation transforms the film’s chaos into meaning.

    Redemption in the Right Form

    When Marshall loses the amplifier for good, the comedy turns poignant. He isn’t devastated about being trapped in another dimension; he’s crushed because he thinks he has lost his redemption, his chance to sit across from Lauer with proof. Only when Holly and Will force him to see the bigger picture — survival, friendship, responsibility — does Marshall slowly begin to shift. In the climax, when given a choice between chasing redemption or saving his friends, he finally chooses them. Ironically, proof of his theories still emerges, but by then Marshall has been transformed. The redemption he once saw only in humiliating Lauer is now found in his growth, his willingness to put people before pride.

    Why This Would Work

    By reshaping the movie around Marshall’s obsession with redemption, the randomness of Land of the Lost gains coherence. Every gag, every chase, every strange detour ties back to the same thread: the clash of Marshall’s fragile ego against the humiliating reality imposed by Matt Lauer. Comedy becomes sharper because it comes from character, not from toilet humor. The finale becomes satisfying because it resolves the arc — Marshall doesn’t just “get out of the land of the lost,” he escapes the prison of his own doubt.

    Conclusion: The Movie That Could Have Been

    Land of the Lost had the potential to be more than a jumble of sketches. It could have been a surreal but meaningful comedy about pride, humiliation, and the desperate need to be believed. By grounding the chaos in Marshall’s obsessive battle with Matt Lauer’s reality, the movie could have gained both heart and cohesion. And with the toilet humor replaced by sharper gags — like the infamous “selfie with an ancient camera” in Holmes & Watson — this bizarre adventure might not just have been fun, but memorable. Who knows? With that spine, it might even have nudged its IMDb score up a full point.

    Thank you!

    Ira

  • Holmes & Watson (2018): An Alternate Arc For Watson’s Earned Co-Detective Position

    Holmes & Watson (2018) had all the right ingredients for a clever historical parody: two brilliant comedic actors, an iconic detective duo, and a high-stakes mystery involving Queen Victoria. Unfortunately, the film’s potential was buried under layers of juvenile toilet humor, repetitive slapstick, and random gags that overshadowed the story. Critics were nearly unanimous in pointing out that the humor often detracted from the narrative, leaving audiences laughing sporadically but rarely engaged with the plot or the characters.

    Yet beneath the chaotic jokes, there were glimmers of character arcs — the subtle fallout and reconciliation between Holmes and Watson hinted at relational growth, even if it was barely developed. Overall, however, both characters remain mostly static: Holmes eccentric and brilliant, Watson loyal and bumbling, from beginning to end. This lack of sustained development meant the story had little emotional payoff, leaving viewers disconnected from what could have been a clever parody with real stakes.

    An Alternative Outline for Watson’s Growth

    A more engaging approach would be to build the story around deeper character arcs that run throughout the entire film. One compelling possibility would focus on the dynamic between Holmes and Watson, using a promise of partnership as the narrative backbone. Imagine Holmes promising Watson that if he contributes meaningfully to solving the Queen’s assassination threat, he will be named co-detective. Excited and eager, Watson sets out to prove himself — only to find that Holmes is secretly sabotaging him at every turn. Holmes could subtly alter clues, misplace evidence, or even redirect minor discoveries, all while maintaining his usual brilliance, perhaps even solving parts of the case in mere minutes.

    Watson, relentless and determined, works through Holmes’ sabotage, demonstrating resourcefulness and cleverness that surprises even Holmes himself. This cat-and-mouse dynamic creates both comedic tension and emotional investment, as viewers root for Watson to earn his recognition. Eventually, Watson discovers the sabotage, leading to a comedic yet meaningful fallout. Holmes, confronted, must apologize and admit his jealousy, revealing unexpected growth and vulnerability while retaining his iconic genius. Only after this reconciliation do they come together to solve the final mystery, blending their complementary strengths.

    Final Thoughts

    With this deeper arc, the film could have replaced most of the lowbrow toilet humor with clever situational gags — the Titanic gag and the bulky camera selfie joke stand out as prime examples of absurdity that actually works within the narrative. The result is a movie where the comedy arises naturally from character interactions and historical absurdities, rather than forced visual gags.

    In conclusion, by weaving sustained arcs for both Holmes and Watson, emphasizing relational growth, and focusing on clever, situational humor instead of gratuitous slapstick, Holmes & Watson could have transformed into a genuinely enjoyable parody. Such a reimagined version might even be worth watching, elevating the film beyond its original critical reception and giving both its actors and the iconic detective duo the showcase they deserved.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • She’s Out of My League (2010): Making it Less Far-fetched and More Tropey

    She’s Out of My League is one of those comedies that seems to have everything lined up for success. It takes a relatable fantasy—the average guy getting the dream girl—and builds a story around it. There are plenty of laughs, some awkward situations, and a likable lead in Jay Baruchel. For a casual watch, it works. But when you step back, the cracks start to show. The story leans too hard on the gimmick of the “10 out of 10” beauty falling for a “5 at best” guy. Instead of developing real chemistry or growth, the film often plays the mismatch for laughs.

    The biggest problem comes when the script tries to raise the stakes. Just before Kirk and Molly are about to take the next step in their relationship, the movie throws in a wild self-destructing freak-out from Kirk. It doesn’t feel like a natural part of his character arc—it feels inserted to create the standard rom-com breakup beat. The result is more silly than believable.

    At its heart, the movie misses a chance to tell a more grounded story. The idea of Kirk not pushing himself onto Molly and standing out from the usual guys at a party is solid. Molly’s interest could easily grow from that spark. But the film doesn’t follow through. Instead, it turns Kirk into a walking ball of insecurity that explodes at the wrong moments. The relationship feels less like something built step by step, and more like something that “just happens” because the plot demands it.

    An Alternative Outline

    Imagine if the story leaned into the misunderstanding at the start. Kirk returns Molly’s phone at a party. They talk for a while, and Kirk never asks for her number, never tries anything. Molly mistakes this restraint for quiet confidence, even maturity. What she doesn’t know is that Kirk is holding back because he thinks she’s completely out of his league. That misunderstanding is the spark.

    But Kirk knows the truth. He knows that the second Molly meets his family and friends, the illusion will crack. They’ll laugh, they’ll stare, they’ll undercut him. So he hides her. Every chance for her to meet his circle is dodged with awkward excuses. Molly finds it strange, but she interprets it as him being private, maybe even protective. For Kirk, it’s survival.

    Eventually, Molly insists. She doesn’t want a relationship in hiding. When she finally meets Kirk’s people, the illusion collapses. Shocked faces, awkward jokes, and Kirk’s own discomfort reveal everything she had started to suspect: he wasn’t being confident, he was being scared. And for Molly, that hurts. She realizes he never really believed he deserved her.

    This sets up a much stronger conflict. Kirk can’t hide anymore. He has to face the fact that he put Molly on a pedestal and let fear control him. His growth comes not from avoiding embarrassment or stumbling into luck, but from choosing to own who he is and stand by Molly without shame. Molly, on her side, has to decide if she wants a partner who is flawed but honest, instead of the fantasy of the guy who seemed immune to her beauty.

    Closing Thoughts

    This version of the story may lean on a more familiar rom-com trope—hiding the relationship until it blows up—but it at least feels believable. The conflict grows out of the characters, not out of forced gags. Kirk doesn’t magically become confident; he earns it by confronting his fear. Molly isn’t just a prize to be won, but someone who demands honesty. It’s still funny, still awkward, still romantic—but grounded enough that the love story actually rings true.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Identity Thief (2013): Introducing Some Cosmic Imbalance for a Proper Archetypal Beginning

    When Identity Thief came out, critics and audiences were quick to point out its flaws. On paper, the movie had all the right ingredients for a comedy with heart: Jason Bateman’s uptight everyman colliding with Melissa McCarthy’s chaotic trickster energy. But the recipe just didn’t come together. Much of the fault lies in how the story began. The opening setup was not only unbelievable on more occasions than one—it was, at its core, misaligned.

    The most glaring problem was this: Sandy, presented to us as an honest, hardworking man, is suddenly scammed out of his identity. It doesn’t quite click. Comedy—especially comedy with some heart—rarely works when pure virtue is simply punished. If Sandy is so utterly without fault, then the theft feels unfair and arbitrary. Without an initial imbalance, there’s no cosmic logic to what follows, only a string of hijinks.

    The Missing Imbalance

    The fix lies not in piling on more gags, but in looking back to the archetypes that have always sustained comedy. Stories of this kind work best when they begin with a small dishonesty, a slight bending of the truth, a little cosmic imbalance. That imbalance draws forth chaos—the trickster character, the accident, the storm—that forces the hero to confront themselves.

    So let’s imagine Sandy not as spotless, but as human. Out of desperation to provide for his family, he scams his way into a promotion. Maybe he bends his résumé, maybe he stretches a sales pitch, maybe he cuts corners. It’s not a grand con, but it’s enough to place him in a shadowy gray area.

    And then, when his first inflated paycheck comes in, the exact surplus amount is stolen. Not a random theft, not a punishment for goodness, but a karmic echo of his own misstep. The universe, in the shape of McCarthy’s Diana, has delivered balance. Now the story starts to hum with archetypal tension.

    Why Balance Matters

    This is how comedies have always found their footing. In Shakespeare’s comedies, a lie or disguise throws the world into chaos until truth is confessed. In Wilder’s films, a cheat or shortcut invites the trickster’s intrusion. The balance is disturbed, and then restored, but only after chaos and honesty have done their work.

    By giving Sandy this small initial scam, the story anchors itself in that timeless rhythm. He’s not just a victim of absurd circumstance—he’s part of the equation. Which also means, when the third act arrives and Diana bares her soul, Sandy has something of his own to confess. He didn’t earn his new life honestly either. His flaw mirrors hers, and so their eventual bond feels earned.

    A Natural Road Into the Journey

    The film also stumbles in how it sends Sandy on the road in the first place. The idea that he would fly across the country, physically drag a stranger back, and that this would somehow resolve the situation is more far-fetched than the premise can support.

    A better path grows naturally from this rebalanced setup. At first, Sandy travels only to confront Diana, maybe to get a signature or clear up the mess in some legal form. But once they meet, once their odd chemistry starts to spark, the idea of returning together grows out of the interaction itself. It doesn’t feel imposed by the screenwriter’s hand—it flows like water from the characters colliding.

    The Comedy That Could Have Been

    These two changes—a Sandy with a shadow, and a more natural entry into the road trip—wouldn’t just smooth over plot holes. They’d give the movie an archetypal backbone, a sense that the universe has order, even in comedy. Instead of a random mismatch of hijinks, we’d see a dance of imbalance and restoration, a meeting of two flawed people who end up finding honesty in each other.

    Had Identity Thief embraced that rhythm, it might have been more than a loose collection of gags. It might have resonated as a story where chaos leads to truth, where balance is restored. And if that had been the case, there’s no doubt its IMDb score would sit at least a point higher today.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Seventh Son (2014): The Right Ingredients, But No Recipe

    Seventh Son should have been a darkly enchanting fantasy — a medieval tale of witches, monsters, and reluctant heroes. On paper, it had everything: a world ripe with folklore, a grizzled mentor in Master Gregory, a young apprentice in Tom Ward, and an old evil stirring again. But what critics and audiences quickly picked up on is that while the film had all the right ingredients, it never found the recipe. The world was intriguing, but the story felt like a patchwork of tropes, hollow gestures, and moments that didn’t build toward anything greater.

    Instead of wonder, we were left with a sense of detachment. And that’s why so many panned it.

    Where the Film Went Wrong

    The largest pitfall wasn’t simply poor pacing or uneven dialogue. It was deeper: the story seemed to be happening to Tom rather than Tom living it. At every turn, he was swept along — purchased as an apprentice, told what his destiny is, nudged toward his visions — and all of this robbed the narrative of agency.

    The “special one” trope, the idea that being a seventh son of a seventh son made him innately chosen, stripped Tom of any earned progress. His visions doubled down on this, as if fate had already written his story, removing ambiguity and the essential tension of free will. And then, as if that weren’t enough, he fell into a romance with Alice before the story even had time to breathe. A kiss that early makes the kiss at the end feel less like a crescendo of growth and intimacy and more like reheated leftovers.

    The result? A flat arc. No real tension. No chance for the protagonist to stumble, doubt, choose poorly, and only then learn.

    A Better Recipe: The Reimagined Outline

    What if Seventh Son leaned into what it already had but corrected its course? Let’s imagine it.

    First, the “special one” is reframed not as a gift, but as a burden — or even worse, a false sense of importance. Tom’s bravado, fed by the myth of being “the seventh son,” would be his greatest flaw. He would think himself destined for greatness when in truth, greatness is only ever earned. This arrogance is what drives him to choose Gregory’s shorter, riskier path — ignoring the master’s warnings about safer routes. Each monster along the way isn’t random spectacle but a reflection of Tom’s inner flaws: recklessness, impatience, fear of failure. The foes escalate as his bravado cracks, forcing him to face himself as much as the enemy.

    Second, his departure from home should be a choice. Not the result of being bought, bartered, or bullied, but a conscious leap into danger — a decision rooted in youthful arrogance. It’s only later, when the weight of consequence presses on him, that the hollowness of bravado becomes clear.

    Third, the romance with Alice should serve as the barometer of his growth. No sudden spark, no premature kiss, but a slow-burning connection tested by trust, betrayal, and fear. If their bond is withheld until the end, the final kiss isn’t a repeat of an earlier scene — it’s a release, the proof that Tom has shed his fears, his arrogance, and found himself.

    Why This Works

    This reframing doesn’t erase the folklore or spectacle of Seventh Son. It enhances it. Suddenly the story is about choice, consequence, and growth. By stripping away the lazy shortcuts — the destiny card, the visions, the early romance — and letting Tom wrestle with agency, bravado, and earned intimacy, the film could have turned from flat fantasy into a mythic coming-of-age.

    It’s not that Seventh Son lacked magic. It lacked a protagonist who mattered by choice rather than prophecy. With that simple shift, the monsters become mirrors, the romance becomes earned, and the arc becomes a journey of a boy who thought he was special until he realized being human — flawed, brave, and free — was special enough.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Purge (2013): Straightening Act 1 for Maximum Tension and Moral Irony

    The Purge (2013) has a brilliant concept: a society where all crime is legal for twelve hours. Yet the original execution rushes straight into purge night, leaving audiences with standard “someone might kill you for no reason” thrills rather than truly earned suspense. The movie barely establishes the world, the characters’ motivations, or the tension that should naturally build before the purge begins. In this article, we focus on straightening Act 1, showing how a slower, layered introduction could make the story richer, funnier, and morally compelling.

    Building the Mundane World Before Chaos

    A classic story introduction contrasts the ordinary with the extraordinary. In a tightened Act 1, the days before the purge would be filled with subtle tension and dark humor. Two girls gossiping about a breakup idea illustrate this perfectly: “Are you absolutely insane… one week before the purge?” one warns. “Don’t worry… three days before, I’m gone to a place nobody knows,” the other replies coolly. Even mundane decisions feel like life-or-death choices, and the audience senses a world teetering on the edge of chaos.

    The neighborhood itself hums with tension. Micro-resentments, petty grudges, and whispered judgments ripple through interactions. Every glance, comment, or minor slights carry weight — foreshadowing that these ordinary frustrations will explode during the purge.

    Churches Full of Anxiety

    Two days before the purge, churches are packed to the brim. Families, neighbors, and anxious individuals fill pews, candles flicker, and soft organ music underscores collective unease. Ethan Hawke’s character is there, lingering long after the service. He isn’t merely seeking spiritual comfort; he’s wrestling with guilt over a professional misstep. Earlier this year, he badmouthed a competing consulting company, indirectly causing harm. Sitting quietly, he contemplates his moral failures while the congregation murmurs and neighbors exchange subtle, loaded glances. Even before violence strikes, tension pervades every interaction.

    Ethan’s Morally Ambiguous Motivation

    In this version, Ethan isn’t simply a protective dad — he’s a flawed, morally grey figure. He runs a consulting service, advising neighbors on purge survival, and profits handsomely from their fear and paranoia. He has bought himself protective equipment, but the irony is that on purge night, he locks his neighbors out, leaving them vulnerable.

    This setup layers the story with moral tension. Ethan’s paranoia isn’t just personal; it’s fueled by guilt and opportunism. His internal conflict surfaces in subtle ways: at work, a colleague confronts him about the earlier incident, urging him to apologize. Ethan snaps defensively: “I have nothing to apologize for!” The audience sees a man struggling with hubris, ethics, and survival — a far more compelling protagonist than a generic protective father.

    Paranoia and Dark Humor

    One day before the purge, a car parks across Ethan’s street. He immediately suspects revenge from the competitor company he undermined, his paranoia peaking. The camera closes on the car… only to reveal two junkies smoking pot, oblivious to him. This moment combines dark humor with character development, highlighting Ethan’s obsessive lens and building tension without immediate violence.

    Setting Up Purge Night

    All of these elements — neighborhood micro-resentments, high-strung churchgoers, office confrontations, and the suspicious car — converge to build psychological and moral tension. By the time purge night arrives, the stakes feel earned: it’s not just about surviving masked intruders, but about a community simmering with grudges, a protagonist with secrets and guilt, and moral consequences that will explode in darkly ironic ways.

    Imagine the tension if Ethan were hiding even more from his wife — perhaps a mistress, adding personal stakes on top of moral ones. Suddenly, every choice he makes before and during the purge feels consequential, suspenseful, and even absurdly funny. A straightened Act 1 like this transforms the film from a rushed horror concept into a layered, psychologically rich thriller, where each moment of pre-purge tension pays off in chaos that is both thrilling and morally complex.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Watch (2012): Failed Because It Was Not Absurd Enough. Let’s Fix That

    Some movies start with a premise so sharp you can’t help but think, this is going to be good. The Watch (2012), starring Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, Jonah Hill, and Richard Ayoade, is one of those. A bunch of suburban men form a neighborhood watch, only to discover that their sleepy town is infested with aliens. It’s the kind of setup that should write itself into a cult comedy classic. Yet the execution was anything but. The movie barrels ahead with scattershot gags, tonal shifts, and chaotic alien action that never quite gels with the humor. What could have been a satire of suburbia meeting the absurd ended up with a truly horrific Rotten Tomatoes score and a reputation as one of those comedies that just couldn’t deliver.

    The core problem? The Watch wasn’t absurd enough. It wanted to play with outlandish ideas but never fully committed, trying to be a half-comedy, half-action film, and landing awkwardly in between. The absurdity was always waiting in the wings, but the movie chose explosions over escalation.

    The Missed Opportunity for Absurdity

    Imagine instead that the inciting incident didn’t involve aliens at all. The Costco security guard at the beginning doesn’t die in some shocking extraterrestrial attack — he just gets wasted at a late-night party in the store and has a horrific accident. Ben Stiller’s character, desperate to impose order on his otherwise mundane life, convinces himself that no human accident could look that bizarre. He concludes it must have been aliens.

    From there, paranoia takes over. A neighborhood watch is formed. The men start seeing patterns where there are none — blinking lights, strange noises, people acting suspiciously. Their imagination fuels their conviction, and the comedy comes not from alien gore but from how far suburban dads will take their fantasies when unchallenged. The brilliance here would be the slow burn escalation: the audience isn’t sure if this is all in their heads or if something real is lurking.

    And then — against all odds — the aliens actually show up.

    The Confrontation and the Cosmic Prank

    When the Watch finally faces aliens, the absurdity peaks. They’re laughably outmatched. Their paranoia-driven confidence shatters as the aliens wipe the floor with them. The men break down, humiliated, admitting they never really knew what they were doing. In the wreckage of their dignity, they’re ready for annihilation.

    But instead of finishing them off, the aliens reveal the truth: it was all a prank. They’d heard rumors across the galaxy about some suburban town in a backwater corner of Earth where guys had formed a “watch” for aliens. The sheer ridiculousness of it was too tempting. They had to see what would happen if they played along.

    The aliens didn’t come to invade; they came to troll. What the humans mistook for deadly serious was, for the aliens, cosmic hazing.

    Why This Would Work

    This alternative outline doesn’t just heighten the absurdity — it commits to it. By rooting the story first in accident-born paranoia, it grounds the comedy in something relatable: how humans can invent meaning (illusion) where there is none. The slow escalation gives the characters room to grow and play off one another instead of drowning in chaotic set pieces. The reckoning and willingness to admit their pitfalls and naivete at the end is the earned product of that internal growth. And the cherry on top? The very satisfaction that, in their own ridiculous way, they managed to manifest their thoughts into reality.

    After the ego is broken, new unassuming galactic friends emerge — pranksters who prove that sometimes the universe is in on the joke. That ending lands with a laugh and a point. Sometimes life’s big battles aren’t cosmic wars but our own tendency to take ourselves too seriously. In this version, The Watch could have been a suburban Galaxy Quest — self-aware, absurd, and much more fun to watch.

    Thank you,

    Ira