Arcaneya

Category: Story MD

  • The Joneses (2009): What’s Up With the Rushed Ending? Let’s Do It Right

    Derrick Borte’s The Joneses arrived with a razor-sharp premise. A perfectly curated fake family moves into suburbia, not for love or belonging, but to sell consumer envy by living it. They flaunt luxury cars, designer clothes, the latest gadgets, all while pretending to be the ideal neighbours. It’s a satire that feels uncomfortably close to truth. Yet for all its wit, the ending of the film rushes past its own setup. Steve, the father figure played by David Duchovny, rebels against the system in a single stroke, and Kate, Demi Moore’s icy matriarch, suddenly joins him as they drive off together. The resolution is quick, convenient, and unearned.

    But what if the ending unfolded more slowly, letting the weight of its themes come crashing down? What if the suicide that rocks the neighbourhood wasn’t just a byproduct of envy, but the direct consequence of Steve’s own actions? In that unraveling lies a sharper, more haunting story.

    The Fatal Sale

    From the beginning, Steve is the weak link in the Joneses operation. Unlike his polished “family,” he struggles to weave product pitches smoothly into everyday conversation. His attempts are clumsy, his eagerness too obvious. Kate scolds him, the “children” roll their eyes, and he is left desperate to prove he belongs.

    So he pushes harder. Zeroing in on a vulnerable neighbour, Steve goes all-in on a sales pitch. Maybe it’s the promise of a luxury car, or a set of golf clubs, or some status symbol that glimmers with importance. Against the odds, his effort works. The neighbour caves, makes the purchase, and for the first time, Steve feels successful.

    That triumph is short-lived. The neighbour has overextended himself, chasing an image he cannot afford, and the financial strain spirals into despair. When the man takes his own life, the illusion of harmless consumerism shatters. Steve is no longer complicit in a vague system. He is directly responsible.

    The Walls Closing In

    The tragedy leaves Steve shellshocked. He cannot admit his role, but he cannot keep going either. Every time he tries to pitch a product, the words die in his throat. His confidence evaporates, his charm falters. The Joneses machine still hums around him, Kate sharper than ever, the company pressing for results, but Steve is broken.

    The neighbours, once dazzled by the family, begin to sense something is off. Whispers ripple through the community. Envy curdles into resentment. Slowly, the walls close in on Steve, and he becomes the fracture line that threatens to break the entire façade.

    The Confession

    It doesn’t end with a heroic speech but with a collapse. At a neighbourhood gathering, Steve blurts out the truth. He admits they are actors, salespeople in disguise, and worse, that his own success helped push a neighbour to his death. The confession is messy, awkward, filled with guilt. He doesn’t deliver it to inspire change but because he can no longer hold the weight of the lie.

    It is repentance, not rebellion.

    The Aftermath

    The company reacts with cold efficiency. The Joneses are reassigned, a new “father” slotted into Steve’s vacant role. Kate does not look back. Her devotion to the illusion is too deep, her fear of losing everything too strong. She chooses the safety of the system over the risk of authenticity.

    Steve is left behind, disgraced but oddly lighter. The neighbours, stunned by his honesty, don’t shun him entirely. One offers him a modest, sincere job — something small, unremarkable, and real. For the first time, Steve earns without selling envy, and though it is humble, it is human.

    A Story That Lingers

    This reimagined ending would allow The Joneses to breathe, to close with the same incisive power that its premise promised. The suicide becomes the turning point of Steve’s arc, tying him directly to the consequences of his ambition. The walls closing in on him build natural tension, and the final fracture delivers not a neat romantic escape, but a bittersweet truth.

    Steve learns, too late, that envy is not a foundation for life. He sought validation by making others jealous, only to discover that real worth can only be earned honestly. Meanwhile, the machine rolls on, indifferent, installing a new Joneses family for the next neighbourhood. The satire deepens.

    Instead of fading out on an unbelievable reconciliation, the story would end with a man stripped of illusions, standing face-to-face with sincerity for the first time. And that, far more than a ride into the sunset, is the ending The Joneses deserved.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Pan (2015): Magical Flight In the Beginning? Not in this Reimagined Outline

    When Pan (2015) first sailed into theaters, it promised a dazzling new take on Peter Pan’s origin story. What audiences got instead was a patchwork quilt of overused tropes, strange creative choices, and one of the most infamous sequences in recent cinema: Blackbeard’s pirates belting out Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” That moment, as bizarre as it sounds, became a perfect symbol for the film—loud, confusing, and entirely disconnected from the timeless magic of J.M. Barrie’s creation. And it only got worse from there, with trope after trope piling up until the story collapsed under its own weight.

    The Flight That Ruined the Journey

    One of the most important motifs in Peter Pan’s story is flight—the ultimate symbol of freedom, belief, and transformation. In mythic storytelling terms, the “magical flight” usually comes near the end of the hero’s journey, as a culmination of growth and courage. But in Pan, the filmmakers burned through that moment almost immediately. When Blackbeard kicks Peter off the plank, Peter suddenly manages to fly, not through struggle or belief, but as if it were his destiny all along. From that instant, the movie tells us he’s “the special one,” chosen from birth, and therefore removes all suspense, ambiguity, or wonder. Why worry if Peter’s already proven to be invincible by the twenty-minute mark? The rest of the story limps on, robbed of its heart.

    How It Could Have Worked Instead

    Imagine if, instead of prematurely crowning Peter the messiah of Neverland, the film leaned into ambiguity. The fairies could whisper among themselves about an ancient legend: one day, a child wearing a magical necklace would save Neverland from the pirates. When they see Peter with the necklace, they wonder quietly if it’s him, but no one—including the audience—knows for sure. Then, when Blackbeard pushes Peter off the plank, the fairies secretly sneak in and sprinkle him with fairy dust, just enough so he flutters to safety. The pirates are stunned, just like in the original 1953 film, but this time the audience is in on the secret: it was a scam.

    Peter, of course, believes he really is the chosen one, and his swelling ego puts his friends in danger. The fairies are scolded by their “fairy grandmother” for meddling with destiny and feeding Peter’s false belief. But here’s where the arc pays off—at the climax, when everyone is cornered and all hope is lost, Peter finally manages to fly for real. Not because he was born special, but because he has grown, repented for his reckless mistakes, and found the courage to believe in himself. That moment would have carried the magic the movie so desperately needed.

    Why This Change Matters

    This small adjustment alone could have transformed Pan from a hollow origin story into a myth worth retelling. It would have preserved the ambiguity of Peter’s destiny, given him an actual character arc, and left the audience with the same awe and wonder that Barrie’s original story still evokes. Instead, what we got was a fast-track to “chosen one” status, followed by a cringe-worthy holographic fairy-dust mother, duplicated Cara Delevingne mermaids, and, yes, a pirate choir that belonged more in karaoke night than Neverland.

    Sometimes the difference between a story collapsing and a story soaring isn’t a massive rewrite—it’s simply knowing when not to spend your most magical moment.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief (2010): Three Plot Issues That Drive Us Crazy

    When Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief hit theaters in 2010, it brought Rick Riordan’s beloved book to life with eye-catching special effects and a fun, modern twist on Greek mythology. The film follows Percy Jackson, a seemingly ordinary teen who discovers he is the son of Poseidon, as he becomes embroiled in a quest involving stolen lightning, vengeful gods, and perilous adventures. While visually engaging and appealing to a younger audience, the movie’s narrative falters in ways that even casual viewers can notice. Critics and fans alike pointed out pacing issues, campy moments, and story choices that feel illogical, leaving the film struggling to capture the cleverness and heart of its source material.

    The Three Plot Issues

    Among the film’s many missteps, three stand out as particularly frustrating. First, the premise that children of gods are automatically demigods capable of incredible feats undermines any potential arc. Percy, presented as instantly competent, never truly earns his victories, which flattens his growth and diminishes audience investment in his journey. Second, the gods’ reaction to the stolen lightning bolt is baffling: they instantly pin the blame on Percy without any search, discussion, or speculation. The lack of investigation makes them appear either incompetent or irrational, creating an avoidable plot hole that weakens the stakes. Third, the subplot involving Persephone and the three pearls is convoluted and nonsensical. The pearls are supposedly magical objects that allow visitors to escape the Underworld, yet Persephone, who controls them, cannot simply hand them over. Instead, they are scattered across the world for reasons that remain unexplained, turning what should be a logical plot device into a confusing fetch quest.

    Proposing a Better Approach

    These three issues — Percy’s overpowered heritage, the gods’ blind accusation, and the pearl confusion — are all fixable, and addressing them could transform the story into a more satisfying and coherent adventure.

    First, Percy’s divine parentage could confer only limited benefits, such as accelerated healing in water, while all other abilities would need to be learned and honed through training. This allows Percy’s pride in being Poseidon’s son to drive recklessness and mistakes, giving him a believable and engaging arc. Second, Percy should have a direct role in the theft to give him agency. At Camp Half-Blood, an excursion could set the stage for Hades, disguised as a mentor, to manipulate Percy into taking the lightning bolt without fully understanding its significance. Hades then removes the bolt to the Underworld, but his involvement is initially only speculative, creating tension and mystery. Percy, recognizing the consequences of his actions, volunteers to enter the Underworld to recon and investigate the bolt.

    Finally, instead of the illogical pearl quest, Percy’s journey could revolve around earning three divine tools necessary for his mission: the Sword of Courage, the Armor of Heart, and the Helmet of Wisdom. Each tool would be obtained through a trial that teaches him the trait it represents, turning a random collection task into a structured series of challenges that align with character growth.

    Why These Changes Matter

    By rethinking these key elements, the story gains coherence, logic, and emotional weight. Percy’s victories feel earned, the antagonist’s plan becomes compelling rather than arbitrary, and the quest transforms from a confusing fetch mission into a meaningful path of growth. The stakes are personal and cosmic, and the narrative allows Percy to make mistakes, learn from them, and gradually become the hero the audience wants him to be. These changes preserve the excitement and mythic wonder of the original story while giving it the depth it needed to fully resonate on screen.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Island (2005): The Small Change That Could Have Made a Great Story Whole

    Michael Bay’s The Island came loaded with a golden sci-fi premise: a secluded community where inhabitants believe the outside world is poisoned, only to discover they’re clones bred for organ harvesting. The first half delivers mystery, tension, and the slow burn of discovery; the second half detonates into high-octane chase sequences and explosions. Both halves are entertaining in their own right — The Truman Show meets Bad Boys II — but the gearshift between them is so sudden it feels like two different films stitched together.

    What’s missing is a bridge — something to keep the intrigue alive while the action escalates. And that bridge could have come from one character: James McCord.

    The Problem With the Midpoint Reveal

    In the original cut, Lincoln Six-Echo and Jordan Two-Delta escape the facility and find McCord, who proceeds to tell them everything. He lays out the truth about the cloning operation, their purpose, and why Merrick is after them. Once that’s done, the mystery is gone. From there, the film becomes a straight survival story with spectacular but thematically disconnected action sequences.

    By dropping the veil so early, the film loses its slow-burn suspense. We know exactly what’s going on, who’s chasing them, and why. The only remaining question is whether they’ll survive — which makes the second half feel flatter than the first, no matter how many stunts it throws at us.

    The Fix: McCord the Reluctant Keeper of Secrets

    The smallest change with the biggest impact would be this: McCord doesn’t tell them everything. Instead, he’s cagey, paranoid, and visibly wrestling with the risk of letting them stay in his home. He gives them shelter, some supplies, and a warning — but dodges their questions.

    Over time, he begins to seem like he’s willing to budge. He drops hints, leans forward, and just when it feels like the truth is finally going to spill out — the door bursts open. Government agents swarm in. The conversation dies mid-sentence. McCord barely has time to shout for them to run before he’s gunned down.

    This does three important things:

    1. Preserves the Mystery: The audience is robbed of the reveal just as it’s within reach, keeping us hooked.
    2. Adds Paranoia: The government’s sudden arrival confirms McCord’s worst fears and deepens the sense that the outside world is just as dangerous, maybe more so.
    3. Raises the Stakes: His abrupt death is a gut punch — proof that the conspiracy runs far deeper than Merrick’s company.

    How It Changes the Second Half

    With McCord gone before revealing the whole truth, the second half gains a second narrative engine. It’s not just about running and shooting — it’s about piecing together the mystery he died protecting. Lincoln and Jordan’s choices aren’t just reactive; they’re also driven by suspicion, grief, and a growing awareness that every ally could be a trap.

    By the time Lincoln finally uncovers the full truth — perhaps in a final confrontation with Merrick — the audience gets a satisfying payoff for both the physical and the intellectual journey. The Bayhem still roars, but the Truman Show-style intrigue never dies.

    Why This Small Change Matters

    Blockbusters often think in terms of spectacle upgrades, but sometimes it’s the withheld information that keeps a story alive. In The Island, the big reveal lands too soon, draining the narrative tension just when it should be compounding. By turning McCord into a reluctant, almost-revealing mentor — and having the government silence him at the last moment — the film could have fused its mystery and action into one seamless experience, giving us a story that feels whole rather than split in two.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Fifth Element (1997): A Sci-Fi Masterpiece That Could Give Korben More to Reckon With

    The Fifth Element (1997) is one of the most colorful, eccentric, and visually inventive sci-fi films ever made. Luc Besson’s futuristic odyssey gave us unforgettable costumes by Jean Paul Gaultier, a villain with a plastic headpiece, a blue opera diva, and a world that somehow feels both cartoonish and lived-in. It’s a movie with charm, humor, and heart—one that has only grown in cult status over the years.

    Still, some critics have rightly pointed out that while the movie brims with personality, Bruce Willis’s Korben Dallas doesn’t go through much of a personal transformation. His arc is functional but arguably too smooth.

    The Original Arc: Proving Himself Again

    In the film’s current form, Korben starts out underestimated. He’s a former special forces operative now stuck driving a taxi, dismissed by his superiors, and treated as though his best days are behind him. When the mission to retrieve the stones and save the Earth falls into his lap, he takes it as an opportunity to prove he’s still the best man for the job—certainly better than the priests.

    It works as an arc: he starts undervalued, and by the end, he’s the man who literally saves the world. But the emotional journey is flat. There’s no personal reckoning, no mid-story crisis where he screws things up, no moment where he must apologize for something deeply his fault. The only apology he offers is to Leeloo for humanity’s historical sins—war, greed, violence—which, while noble, isn’t the same as a personal failing he must own.

    An Alternative Arc: Jealousy and Distraction

    One way to add depth would be to give Korben a flaw that actually threatens the mission. Imagine that as the story unfolds, Korben develops a growing attraction to Leeloo—not unusual in the original—but instead of playing it cool, he starts seeing her as “his” in a way that blinds him.

    Then, during the Floston Paradise mission, he notices Leeloo laughing, talking, and working closely with the priests—especially the younger priest, which is also good looking—sharing in-jokes and moments he’s not part of. Korben’s jealousy begins to simmer. He starts focusing on one-upping the priests and winning Leeloo’s approval rather than keeping his eye on the real goal: securing the stones.

    This distraction leads to a genuine blunder—a misstep that nearly hands victory to the enemy. The moment forces Korben to confront his ego and realize that the mission was never about “getting the girl,” but about protecting something far greater. Only by swallowing his pride and apologizing—directly to Leeloo for losing sight of what mattered—can he help put things right in time for the final act.

    Would It Work Better?

    This kind of adjustment wouldn’t alter the core charm or wild energy of The Fifth Element—it would simply give Korben’s journey more emotional texture. By making him stumble, we’d give the audience a chance to see him learn, grow, and earn his redemption and love in the end.

    Of course, that’s just one idea, and maybe the beauty of the original is that Korben is already the man the universe needs—steady, competent, and dependable. Perhaps it can be up to you to be the judge of whether adding a dash of jealousy and a real mistake would make his journey richer, or if the version we already have is exactly what the movie needs.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Mortal Engines (2018): Putting the Derailed Premise Back on the Mud Track

    Mortal Engines opens with one of the most imaginative concepts in modern steampunk cinema — cities on wheels, devouring each other in a post-apocalyptic ecosystem of predator and prey. The idea is visual dynamite. You can almost taste the diesel fumes, hear the creak of steel teeth as one city swallows another.

    And yet, after this thunderous opening, the movie veers into strange, disconnected territory. The predator-city concept fades into the background as we follow a revenge arc that could have been set in any generic dystopia, a sentimental undead assassin with confusing motivations, and a conveniently introduced fortress city that arrives without setup. By the time the climax rolls around, we’ve gone from grinding gears and political maneuvering to a quantum-powered doomsday weapon — a tonal leap so jarring it snaps the dieselpunk fantasy in half.

    The heart of the premise — the politics, survival, and ruthlessness of predator cities — gets lost under a heap of side plots. Which is a shame, because with the right focus, Mortal Engines could have been something unforgettable.

    A Love Story That Devours

    Instead of scattering the audience’s attention, the story could have anchored itself to a single, driving throughline: a classic love story, tangled in the politics of predator cities.

    The film could open much like the original — a medium-sized predator city hunting down a smaller one. The protagonist, a young captain’s apprentice, makes the decisive move that captures the prey (the magician archetype). After the victory, he convinces the crew to pull ashore for a much-needed rest, docking against a beautiful, stationary shore city. He signals peace with white lights… but positions the city so its treads crush the first shoreline house — a symbolic reminder that even diplomacy in this world begins with a bite.

    Tensions are high as diplomats are sent in. Here, the apprentice meets a woman who will upend his world (the high priestess) — radiant, sharp, and belonging to a city too beautiful to devour. To impress her, he later captures a third city, basking in his own bravado. But she soon tires of his arrogance and returns to her former lover. Stung and furious, the apprentice engineers a false flag attack from her home city, giving him the excuse to devour it.

    His triumph turns sour. Diplomats resent him, and the great metropolis of London sends him cold warnings. With enemies closing in, he is eventually forced to seek asylum in a massive fortress city with walls like Shan Guo, enduring ridicule for his retreat. Cornered (the hanged man archetype), he begins to reckon with the destruction he has caused. When he meets his former love again — a survivor of the city he destroyed — he apologises (the death archetype). They share a quiet, sunlit moment of truth (the sun archetype). She offers a hint of warmth, but nothing more for now.

    Redemption on the Edge of Devouring

    With London’s forces advancing and all seemed lost, the protagonist does not surrender to despair. Instead, tempered by loss and humbled by the consequences of his pride, he devises a bold plan—not to fight with sheer force but to outthink the predator city system itself.

    Drawing on his knowledge of the cities’ mechanics and his hard-earned understanding of alliances and survival, he forges unexpected coalitions among smaller settlements, uniting prey cities that had long lived in fear and isolation. He transforms the landscape from a battlefield of consumption into a network of cooperation, a new kind of ecosystem where survival depends on mutual support rather than endless devouring.

    In a climactic maneuver, he leads this alliance to outwit London’s juggernaut—not by meeting steel with steel, but by exploiting vulnerabilities in the predator city’s overreach. Through clever strategy and a willingness to sacrifice personal glory for the greater good, he stops London’s advance and ignites the first flicker of a new order.

    His personal redemption is complete—not through revenge or conquest, but through wisdom, humility, and love that endures beyond the carnage.

    Why This Works

    By centering the story on a single, emotionally charged romance, every hunt, every diplomatic move, and every battle becomes tied to the protagonist’s personal arc. The love story doesn’t exist in the background — it is the story. The predator cities aren’t just set dressing; they are the means, the obstacle, and the weapon in a war of pride and longing.

    This version would keep the dieselpunk spectacle while giving the audience a reason to care about the outcome beyond “who wins the fight.” Pride and love would drive the plot, the politics would feel sharper, and the final tragedy would land with the force of steel jaws closing. Instead of destruction, this ending offers hope—a protagonist who learns and grows, forging a future that breaks the cycle of endless consumption.

    In short, it would give Mortal Engines what the original sorely lacked: a heartbeat that could be heard over the roar of the engines.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • A Wrinkle in Time (2018): Improving an Unwatchable Story into a Rainy-Afternoon Worthy Adventure

    There are bad movies, there are messy movies… and then there’s Disney’s 2018 A Wrinkle in Time, which manages to make a pile of garbage look like “freshly washed laundry tucked neatly into a carefully painted new wardrobe.” It had a hefty budget, a beloved cast, and source material that’s inspired generations — yet somehow the film plays like someone wrote ideas on index cards, threw them in the air, and filmed whichever ones landed on a dog poo.

    From the get-go, it’s a story without agency. Meg and company are essentially abducted by plot. The three mysterious women arrive out of nowhere, herd the kids along without explanation, and the characters just… go with it. The young genius Charles Wallace, instead of being an interesting wild card, is presented as a flawless wunderkind — a cinematic red flag for boredom. In the movie we got, he turns evil out of nowhere. In the movie we could have gotten, he could’ve been an antagonistic thorn in Meg’s side from the start.

    Giving Meg the Reins

    In our rewrite, the three women aren’t random fairy godmothers — they’re cosmic investigators, looking into a dangerous, unexpected “tessering” event. They suspect it’s connected to Meg’s missing father. Meg, sharp and restless, overhears their conversation and puts two and two together. Instead of being whisked away, she makes a choice: she’s going through that portal.

    She drags Charles Wallace and Calvin with her — Charles against his will, Calvin out of fascination (and maybe a dash of teen awkwardness). This single change flips the movie’s energy. Now Meg’s driving the plot, Charles has a legitimate reason to be irritated with her, and Calvin’s loyal, slightly worshipful presence balances the sibling friction.

    Charles Wallace: The Slow-Burn Villain

    From the moment they leave Earth, Charles questions Meg’s every decision. He doubts her instincts, scoffs at her optimism, and accuses her of chasing a hopeless dream. This isn’t just bickering for the sake of drama — it’s setting the stage for his eventual turn.

    Just as Meg is on the verge of breaking through to her father, Charles’s ego pushes him over the edge. Unwilling to admit she might be right, he gives in to IT’s influence, twisting the fabric of space to keep their father hidden. His transformation isn’t random — it’s the inevitable climax of his arc.

    A Father Lost in the Corners of the Universe

    The original film plops Dad into an empty cosmic room, moping like he’s been waiting for a table at a crowded restaurant. Our version grounds his predicament in lore: tessering requires precise cosmic coordinates and a calm mind. As a newcomer, he overshot his destination and landed in a remote alien village, immediately incarcerated for his different appearance — fed, clothed, but never trusted.

    Stressed and untrained, he couldn’t tesser back even if he wanted to. He doesn’t know Earth’s “vibrational signature,” and every failed attempt sends him in circles. Meg and Calvin must follow faint echoes of his failed tessers to find him — a breadcrumb trail sabotaged by Charles at every step.

    From Under 5 to Solid 6?

    The IMDb score for A Wrinkle in Time sits under 5, the cinematic Bermuda Triangle where films go to be politely forgotten. With stronger character agency, a sibling rivalry that escalates into a meaningful emotional climax, and a father’s plight that makes sense within the story’s own rules, this version could easily climb into the mid-6 range — not perfect, but enough to turn “unwatchable” into “worth a rainy afternoon.”

    In short: give the characters a reason to be there, give the relationships tension, and maybe — just maybe — your flying manta ray moment won’t feel like the idea card that stuck because it has gotten some dog poo on it.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Downsizing (2017): How a Great Premise Went Small, and What Could Have Been

    When Downsizing released in 2017, it came packaged as a brilliant high-concept premise: what if you could shrink yourself to five inches tall, live like royalty on a fraction of your old budget, and save the planet in the process? It was a setup ripe for wonder, satire, and visual inventiveness. And yet, instead of reveling in its own conceit, the movie skipped right over the most exciting part — the initial amazement of the small world — and wandered off into an oddly disconnected plot about a disabled Vietnamese activist and a doomsday cult preparing for the end of the world.

    It was an odd choice. Not because those subjects couldn’t work in another film, but because they made Downsizing feel less like an original and more like a second or even third sequel, the kind of thematic detour a franchise might attempt after audiences have already spent a movie or two immersed in the novelty of the concept. What we should have gotten was the obvious first story — the one that lets us live in the small world before tearing it apart.

    What We Never Saw

    Once the characters became small, the movie barely touched the premise at all. Where were the everyday hazards? Imagine weather events that barely rate a headline in the big world — “mildly windy” — becoming hurricane-level chaos for someone only a few inches tall. A boat ride on a pond would be a white-knuckle survival adventure, every ripple a towering wave.

    Insects, too, would be an unavoidable terror. A single wasp could be a life-threatening encounter, ants a creeping army. Small people would need big people for constant protection, leading to a culture of dependency where the large are worshipped like gods — and feared like demons. Anger the wrong “big” and they could crush your car with a flick of a finger.

    Even environmentalism would shift. Without the same pollution impact, litter might be ignored, garbage piling up in public spaces simply because it’s no longer seen as a global hazard. That tiny utopia could very quickly look less than perfect.

    The World Inevitably Mirrors the Old One

    The obvious long-term trajectory for a downsized society is that it would slowly become a mirror of the big world. At first, productivity might plummet — thanks to lower expenses, people could work just two hours a day and still live comfortably. But boredom and capitalism have a way of creeping back in. People would fill their empty hours with new ventures, competition would grow, and before long, many would be working eight hours again, often in jobs they didn’t like, simply because that’s how human systems drift.

    Even the architecture would become impractical. Huge mansions — cheap to build in this scale — would prove isolating and hard to maintain. Neighborhoods would empty as people moved into smaller, closer-knit communities. Those left behind would find themselves lonely in echoing houses, far from friends.

    Paul’s Story, Reimagined

    The original Downsizing handicapped itself by making Paul’s first moments in the small world miserable — the heartbreak of his wife backing out left him sulking instead of letting us share in the thrill of the transformation. In a better version, Paul’s wife would leave him before the decision, taking half their wealth and leaving downsizing as his only real option.

    He would arrive excited, wide-eyed, marveling at every new detail. But slowly, he’d notice the cracks — the wind, the pests, the creeping reappearance of social hierarchies, the loneliness of a mansion that feels more like an abandoned stage set. Eventually, Paul would see the writing on the wall: the small world is heading down the same path as the big one.

    He’d try to fight it, giving speeches, lobbying for reforms, trying to hold back the tide — but he’d fail. And in that failure, he’d find acceptance. He’d stop worrying about saving the system and instead focus on his own purpose. His world would mirror the old one, and he’d no longer be bothered by it. Because he’d finally learned that life needs struggles, that these challenges are what make people stronger.

    Start with the Obvious Before the Variations

    When a concept is this fresh, let the first story be the most obvious one — the purest exploration of the premise that made the audience buy the ticket in the first place. Once that’s been explored, you can start playing with stranger, subtler variations in sequels. Downsizing skipped the most vital chapter of its own potential saga, leaving us with glimpses of a world we wanted to live in, but never really got to experience.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Bright (2017): A Treasure Trove Buried in Chaos — Reforging a New Storyline from the Shards of Potential

    David Ayer’s Bright arrived on Netflix with a bold ambition: merge gritty L.A. cop drama with urban fantasy. It brought orcs, elves, wands, and police politics into one cauldron, and from the first act, it felt like something daring and fresh. The premise was original, the allegories (while clunky) had promise, and the world clearly had depth waiting to be explored.

    But not long into its runtime, the film began to buckle under its own weight. Magic systems were vague and overpowered. Character motivations flickered inconsistently. And the story was ultimately hijacked by lore-dumps, invisible dark lords, and a wand so powerful it could rewrite reality, yet everyone chased it with the logic of a high school hallway fight. What could’ve been a street-smart fantasy ended up feeling like watching two different films wrestle for dominance — with both losing.

    The core problem? Bright wanted to say something, but didn’t know who it wanted to say it through. So let’s fix that.

    Rewriting the Focus: Give Jakoby the Lead, and Let Him Earn the Light

    The heart of Bright — what little of it remains visible under all the clutter — is the orc cop Nick Jakoby. He’s the first orc in the police force. He’s hated by orcs, ridiculed by humans, and distrusted by everyone, including his partner Ward. But what makes him special isn’t magic. It’s his moral compass. His relentless optimism. His quiet resilience.

    So in this revision, Jakoby becomes the true protagonist.

    Everything stays: the scorn, the bullying, the looks. But we deepen it — Jakoby vows to remain positive, refuses to give in to hate, and keeps believing in the good he sees in others. Ward, meanwhile, becomes a test. He’s aggressive, cynical, and deeply uncomfortable with Jakoby. At one point, under pressure, Ward even blames Jakoby for a civilian death to save his own skin. Jakoby doesn’t lash out. He forgives him.

    In another pivotal echo of Ward’s earlier cruelty, Ward dares Jakoby to kill a fairy — like he once did. But Jakoby refuses, recognizing that the fairy, annoying as it may be, did nothing wrong. And so his integrity stays intact.

    All of this leads to the final revelation that Jakoby is a Bright. Not because of bloodlines or hidden lore, but because he is worthy. It would no longer feel like a cameo twist. It would feel earned — like the natural culmination of a moral journey.

    Tone Down the Wand, And Give the Plot a Beating Heart

    The magic in Bright escalates fast. Too fast. A wand that grants any wish is not only lazy — it breaks the world. Instead, let’s restrain its power: the wand can now only resurrect one life per moon cycle. Still immensely powerful, but finite, manageable, and narratively functional.

    And now, it’s not about world-ending threats or vague resurrections of Sauron-like Dark Lords we’ve never seen. The plot becomes sharper: an elven extremist leader has died, and a faction of elves has just three days to bring him back before his soul departs forever. Tikka, once part of their circle, now disillusioned by their cruelty and propaganda, steals the wand and goes on the run.

    That’s where our story begins — not with apocalypses or chosen ones, but with a desperate mission and a deeply personal betrayal. No sky beams. No cults. Just a chase with moral weight.

    Give the Orcs a Voice, and Humans Something to Learn

    In Bright, orcs are set up as an allegory for oppressed groups, but the execution is surface-level. They’re shoved aside, used for quick laughs or cameos, with almost no meaningful screen presence.

    Let’s change that.

    The revised story reveals a social truth that upends what the humans believe: while humans historically hate orcs and romanticize elves, elves have always despised humans — cold superiority masked behind culture and wealth. In contrast, orcs have always admired humans, perhaps even revering them as allies or aspirational partners in society.

    But due to a long campaign of anti-orc propaganda pushed by elven elites, humanity never knew. They chose to believe that the elves, elegant and advanced, were inherently better — and the orcs brutish and savage.

    This adds emotional richness to Jakoby’s journey. He isn’t just the first orc on the force. He’s the first ambassador of truth, forced to prove himself in a world stacked against him, while harboring a deep and genuine love for the very people who mistreat him.

    A Bright Future Earned, Not Bestowed

    In this version, Jakoby’s eventual rise as a Bright isn’t a last-minute twist or a fan-service gimmick. It’s the culmination of everything he’s endured and everything he’s stood for. His arc has meaning. His story has weight.

    And there’s something inherently powerful in that final image: an ugly, ridiculed, gentle-hearted orc becomes Bright—not because he was destined, but because he proved himself worthy. The very idea of “Bright” is redefined—not as magic bloodlines, but as moral clarity and unwavering hope in a world of darkness.

    It’s that contrast—an orc shining with light—that would have made Bright truly brilliant.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Lucy (2014): When Limitless Potential Still Missed Something Profound

    Luc Besson’s Lucy is one of those films that manages to be both intriguing and frustrating at the same time. With Scarlett Johansson in the lead and a pseudo-scientific premise about unlocking the full capacity of the human brain, the movie promises transcendence but ultimately dissolves into abstraction. Watching it unfold feels like witnessing a brilliant idea slipping through the cracks of its own ambition. It’s not that the film lacks vision—it’s that it forgets to ground its cosmic ponderings in something profoundly human.

    There’s undeniable excitement in the movie’s early moments. The pacing is energetic, the stakes feel real, and Johansson commands attention as Lucy—a woman thrown into a nightmare who gains terrifying and exhilarating powers. And then, as her brain capacity increases, the film swerves from thrilling sci-fi into increasingly strange territory. She becomes omniscient, then omnipotent, and finally… omnipresent? The climax is a confusing soup of visuals and voiceovers, capped off with her consciousness vanishing into a thumb drive. It’s not bad in the “terrible movie” sense, but more in the “almost brilliant but lost its way” sense.

    The Pitfall: Intelligence Without Emotion

    The central issue isn’t the science-fiction concept—no one watches a movie like Lucy expecting rigorous accuracy. The problem lies in how the film treats its protagonist’s emotional arc. As Lucy evolves, she detaches. She becomes less human, less relatable, and eventually, barely recognizable. The deeper she goes into unlocking the mysteries of the universe, the less we feel connected to her. And that’s the great paradox: a film about expanding consciousness becomes emotionally hollow.

    The movie flirts with philosophical themes—evolution, knowledge, time, existence—but never marries them to anything personal or meaningful. Morgan Freeman’s character delivers a TED Talk on brain usage percentages, but there’s no true counterpoint or evolution in thought. Lucy, who begins as a frightened, vulnerable woman, is robbed of her emotions before she can process or question what she’s becoming.

    A New Outline: What If Lucy Was Searching for Love?

    Imagine a version of Lucy where the central mystery isn’t the nature of time or space—but the mystery of love.

    The film could open with a different kind of fight between Lucy and Richard. Perhaps something raw, something honest. Lucy, frustrated by a shallow relationship, yells:
    “You don’t even know what love is. You’re not even using half your brain.”
    To which Richard responds:
    “Nobody does. We only use 15%. Look it up.”
    And with a final jab:
    “You don’t need to be smart to know love. You just have to feel it.”

    This emotionally charged exchange could plant the seed for Lucy’s true journey. As she begins to unlock her brain, gaining control over matter, memory, time—she becomes obsessed not with power, but with understanding what love really is. She studies, observes, and even accesses the neural signatures of lovers across time. But the more she learns, the more she realizes love is not something that can be dissected, digitized, or decoded. It can only be experienced.

    This arc gives weight to her transformation. Her detachment would be challenged by longing, by memory, by glimpses of what she missed or dismissed. And in the climax, as the universe seemingly invites her to ascend—become everything, transcend time—she makes a different choice.

    Lucy chooses to stay.

    She chooses to remain in a body, to remain human, to continue learning not with her brain, but with her heart. Not because it’s rational, but because it’s real.

    In this reimagining, the movie doesn’t end with a godlike being dispersing into the cosmos, but with a woman—no longer just powerful, but profoundly present—deciding that the greatest mystery isn’t the universe… it’s love.

    Thanks,

    Ira