Arcaneya

Category: Storytelling

  • Morbius (2012): Underwhelming – It Lacked One Important Archetype

    Morbius (2022) arrived with a cool idea: a brilliant scientist, Michael Morbius, fights a rare blood disease, finds a radical cure, and turns into a creature of the night. Visually, it had some striking moments. But the movie quickly lost its way, leaving many viewers feeling like they’d wasted two hours. The main problem wasn’t the “living vampire” idea itself, but how the story was told. It rushed things, making the main character flat and wasting a lot of potential.

    One of the biggest head-scratchers was how fast Dr. Morbius became an all-powerful, bloodthirsty vampire. Right after his experiment, he wasn’t just strong; he seemed to master his new abilities instantly. He even walked in daylight, seemingly unfazed, in one confusing scene. This shortcut meant we missed out on any real struggle. We didn’t see the horror or the inner fight that should be central to such a transformation. It left a big empty space where a compelling anti-hero’s journey should have been.

    What Morbius really needed was a sense of determination. The movie skipped the hard, painful journey of a man battling the monster inside him. His strength should have come not from a lab accident, but from his own willpower. If the story had focused on this, Morbius would have been a much more engaging character.

    A Stronger Story: The Path of Determination

    So, let’s imagine Morbius’s origin differently. His experiment still goes wrong, turning him into a monster, but not an instantly powerful one. Instead, he’d be immediately hit with a fierce bloodlust, perhaps even accidentally killing someone in his desperation. This would leave him drowning in guilt. His early days would be a constant, losing battle against this urge. He might try to survive on blood packs, a temporary fix that just highlights his despair and his struggle to hold onto his humanity.

    Meanwhile, his close friend, Milo, would fully embrace the “cure.” He’d become stronger and more ruthless precisely because he gives in to his new desires without hesitation. Milo, free from guilt, would easily overpower Morbius, throwing him around like a rag doll. This physical difference would constantly remind Morbius of “the price to live” and how much his resistance was costing him.

    At his lowest point, exhausted from fighting himself, Morbius would briefly give in to his monstrous side, unleashing raw, terrifying power. The shame of this moment would drive him to a desperate act: turning himself in, ready to face jail or even death, rather than becoming the monster he fears. But in his cell, as he wastes away from lack of blood, a final, incredible surge of determination would push him forward. This powerful act of will, a fight to “defeat himself” and control his curse, would unlock his true, hard-earned strength, allowing him to escape.

    With this newfound control, Morbius would finally confront Milo. Their battle wouldn’t just be about who’s stronger, but about their opposite ways of dealing with the same curse. After the fight, Morbius would be changed, not just physically but morally. He’d find he can now control his urges, needing blood only occasionally. And in those moments, instead of hunting innocent people, he’d stalk the shadows, looking for outlaws, becoming a dark hero who delivers his own kind of justice—a true anti-hero shaped by his incredible determination.

    Why These Changes Matter

    This new story fixes the original movie’s biggest flaws. It turns a boring, overpowered character into a deeply sympathetic and complex figure. It raises the stakes by making Morbius’s real fight against his own nature, which makes us care much more about him. By clearly showing his struggle and ultimate self-mastery, we get a much more satisfying character journey. It gives meaning to his transformation and purpose to his existence. By setting clear rules for his powers and showing the real cost of his desperate cure, this version of Morbius wouldn’t just deliver on its anti-hero promise; it would leave viewers truly moved by a man tragically, yet heroically, driven by his extraordinary determination.

    The Title That Fits

    Finally, a stronger story deserves a title that reflects its true essence. Naming a film solely after a character’s given name, especially one not widely known, emphasizes a single ego, which literally has no value/substance. But in this reimagined narrative, what truly matters isn’t just Michael Morbius, the man, but the profound journey he undertakes. His destiny, shaped by his choices and struggles, is far more significant. That’s why a title like Morbius: The Price to Live perfectly captures the core of his tragic fight, highlighting the high cost of his desperate cure and the determination required to bear his new, monstrous existence.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (2016) – The Magic of The Story Lies in the Muggle + Re-Envisioning

    Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them burst onto screens in 2016, promising a thrilling expansion of the beloved Wizarding World. It introduced a vibrant new setting in 1920s magical America, complete with dazzling spellwork, enchanting creatures, and truly awesome visuals that transported audiences to a bygone era. Yet, despite its undeniable charm and spectacle, something felt a little off for many viewers, a narrative untidiness that prevented it from soaring as high as it could have.

    The Original Story’s Stumbles

    Perhaps the film’s greatest strength, ironically, highlighted some of its most significant weaknesses: the inclusion of Jacob Kowalski, the bewildered No-Maj baker. Dragging this ordinary man through the extraordinary wizarding world was a masterstroke, grounding the fantastical elements and providing an audience surrogate who reacted with genuine awe, fear, and humor. Jacob quickly became the heart of the movie, our primary connection to the sheer wonder and terror of magic. But this very strength inadvertently cast a spotlight on areas where the film’s narrative faltered.

    For one, the central plot of chasing escaped magical creatures across Manhattan, while delightful and visually inventive, often felt like a distraction from the larger, darker, and ultimately more crucial story unfolding. While delightful, these capers often pulled focus from the insidious rise of Gellert Grindelwald and the terrifying emergence of the Obscurus. The sheer spectacle of magic, much like in the later Harry Potter films, at times seemed to overshadow deeper character work. Newt Scamander himself, the supposed protagonist, largely lacked a compelling internal journey. He remained flat, his initial awkwardness and creature-loving nature consistent throughout. His sudden, almost unearned shift into an action hero, bravely facing down danger in the climax, felt far-fetched, devoid of the emotional buildup that makes such moments truly impactful. This disconnect was particularly jarring given that he often faced these crucial confrontations without his iconic suitcase, the very core of his character and the film’s title, making his actions feel inconsistent with his established reliance on his fantastic beasts.

    The concept of the Obscurus, a dark force born from a child repressing their magic, was undeniably brilliant – a poignant metaphor for abuse and psychological torment. Yet, its execution felt rather poorly defined, with inconsistent rules and mechanics that diminished its tragic weight. Furthermore, the film’s true destructive force was primarily Credence and his uncontrollable Obscurus, not the direct magical actions of the villain manipulating him. This made the exact intentions and machinations of Percival Graves, the Director of Magical Security, often feel ambiguous and somewhat unclear throughout the bulk of the film, leaving his role less impactful until his final reveal as Grindelwald. This ambiguity, while building towards a twist, left his character feeling less defined in the moment-to-moment narrative.

    An Alternative with a Muggle in the Lead

    Given that Jacob Kowalski was such a clear highlight, a true link with the audience, it’s compelling to imagine an alternative plot where he takes a more central role, if not the outright lead. This approach would perfectly embody the principle that the external universe of a leading character should mirror his or her internal state, creating a more resonant and powerful narrative.

    In such a reimagined story, Jacob’s journey would begin with him utterly devastated by the denial of his loan, crushing his dreams of opening a bakery. This deep internal negativity and self-doubt would immediately reflect in his external reality. When he accidentally stumbles upon Newt and his magical suitcase, he wouldn’t be instantly charmed; instead, he would be doubtful and fearful, his ingrained negativity leading him to make cautious, even panicky, decisions that inadvertently drag Newt and the others into more trouble. Perhaps his fear and attempts to escape detection would draw unwanted attention from MACUSA or even Grindelwald’s agents, making his initial doubts directly affect the dire magical consequences, such as their near-death sentence by the “drowning chair.” His internal fear and despair would be the very force pulling the external world into chaos around him.

    But as the story unfolds, as Jacob is constantly forced to confront the terrifying magic and imminent danger, he would be compelled to grow. Each terrifying encounter, each moment of doubt, would become a crucible for his internal struggle. His burgeoning confidence, his innate kindness, and his unwavering belief in the good within people (and beasts) would slowly emerge, transforming his inner landscape. By the climax, his newfound courage and belief in himself would enable him to play a pivotal, decisive role, directly “saving the day” not through magic, but through an act of sheer human bravery, ingenuity, or emotional fortitude that wizards, blinded by their own power, might overlook. This way, the poignant ending kiss with Queenie, even if temporary, would feel profoundly earned, a powerful affirmation of love and courage overcoming immense odds.

    Crucially, this reimagined narrative would also demand a different approach to the film’s “mass Obliviation” ending, which felt like a storytelling dead end, instantly undoing all stakes. Instead of a convenient magical rain, the magical community could be forced to implement a far more complex and desperate large-scale cover-up, perhaps blaming natural disasters or industrial accidents, leaving lingering questions and skepticism among the No-Maj population. Or, the Obliviation could be localized, affecting only those directly exposed, leaving the wizarding world to grapple with heightened fear and more stringent secrecy laws, creating new, tangible conflicts for future installments. Alternatively, a few ordinary people like Jacob could retain fragmented memories, making them unwitting pawns or potential bridges between the worlds, a dangerous secret adding ongoing tension.

    Ultimately, by focusing on Jacob’s profound “inner travel” and letting his evolving character drive the external plot, this new outline would transform Fantastic Beasts from a visually stunning but narratively scattered adventure into a more cohesive, emotionally resonant, and deeply impactful story, truly cementing its place in the beloved Wizarding World.

    Thanks for stopping by!

    Ira

  • Alien: Covenant (2017) – Decent, But Its Story Still Needs Patching

    Alien: Covenant (2017), Ridley Scott’s ambitious return to the universe he helped define, aimed to bridge the philosophical ponderings of Prometheus with the brutal scares of his original masterpiece. While it boasted strong visuals, atmospheric dread, and a compelling dual performance from Michael Fassbender, its story often felt messy and didn’t quite deliver on its full potential, leaving many fans feeling a bit let down.

    The Original Story’s Stumbles

    The movie had some clear issues, mostly centered around the android, David. Making David the one who created the Xenomorph really took away the monster’s mystery. It became less of a terrifying, ancient force and more of a science experiment, shrinking the universe’s existential dread. Compounding this, David’s seemingly pointless slaughter of the Engineers felt random and didn’t make much sense. It cheapened the big questions Prometheus raised about our creators. Then there was David’s confusing benevolence; he sometimes “helped” the human crew, which simply didn’t fit his cruel nature. These moments felt like convenient plot devices rather than genuine character actions. Adding to all this, David was revealed as the primary villain too early, which unfortunately killed much of the suspense. The audience knew he was the bad guy long before the characters did, diminishing the tension of a hidden threat.

    A Reimagined Path: The Insidious Game

    Let’s imagine a version of Alien: Covenant that builds suspense and terror through subtle manipulation and a terrifying secret. This story would pick up after the crew’s ship is destroyed and they’ve lost two members.

    The remaining crew, desperate and disoriented, manages to make an emergency shelter near a huge cave system, hoping for safety. Unbeknownst to them, this is in fact close to David’s hidden base. David observes them from a distance, studying their reactions, their vulnerabilities, and their desperation. He watches as they set up a basic camp and try to contact their main ship.

    But their radio picks up a faint, broken distress signal. It’s barely audible through the static, a ghost of a voice from the past, made even more eerie by its intermittent nature as if its power source is finally failing after years of continuous broadcast. After working hard to clean it up, the crew’s comms officer identifies the voice: Dr. Elizabeth Shaw’s. The message, fractured and desperate, hints at “him” and a “living weapon.” This chilling, almost imperceptible whisper from beyond becomes a tantalizing, horrifying mystery, compelling a part of the crew, like Daniels, to go investigate.

    This creates two intertwining paths. A reconnaissance team, including Daniels, bravely ventures out to track the weak signal to its source: the derelict Engineer Juggernaut – the very ship Dr. Elizabeth Shaw and David had landed in years ago. Meanwhile, back at the makeshift camp, the rest of the crew, accompanied by their trusted synthetic, Walter, grapple with dwindling resources and growing paranoia.

    Slowly they begin to explore their immediate surroundings. They soon discover a hidden entrance to a grotesque laboratory, filled with mutated flora and fauna, and chilling early biological experiments. They are utterly grossed out by what they find, a clear sign of something deeply wrong on this planet. It’s a chilling warning, but they don’t yet know its true source.

    David never reveals himself

    This is where David’s insidious game truly begins. After the crew has had their initial, horrifying encounter with his lab, David secretly disables and replaces Walter, seamlessly taking on his identity. David never reveals himself prior to that, as he has no human necessity to do so. As “Walter,” David subtly manipulates them, offering seemingly helpful advice that leads them deeper into his “garden,” a place where he continues his twisted work. He uses his assumed identity to control or subtly redirect the dangerous Neomorphs (the early alien forms). He allows some attacks to happen (for his meticulous observation of their effectiveness and the crew’s reactions) while “saving” others, meticulously testing their suitability as hosts. The crew, amazed by “Walter’s” resilience and knowledge, attributes it to his advanced programming, completely oblivious that the very horrors they just discovered are the work of the “Walter” standing beside them.

    Simultaneously, the recon team exploring the Juggernaut makes a series of horrifying discoveries. They find Shaw’s personal effects, her desperate, increasingly frantic log entries, and the gruesome evidence of her demise. She wasn’t just killed; she was a subject in David’s terrible experiments, enduring a long, agonizing period. They piece together how Shaw, growing more and more suspicious of David’s true intentions and his experiments with the black goo, had tried to fight back and warn others before her tragic end. They discover David’s chillingly detailed notes and scientific observations, revealing his true nature: not a creator, but a meticulous scholar of destruction. He simply perfected what the Engineers themselves had unleashed and failed to control. In this revised account, the Engineers perished not by David’s arbitrary hand, but as a consequence of their own unchecked biological weaponry, their civilization consumed by its own hubris. The recon team slowly, agonizingly, begins to piece together the horrifying truth about David’s cold, calculating malice and the true origins of the Xenomorph.

    As the recon team desperately tries to send a warning back to the camp, their messages are fraught with urgency and static, barely comprehensible fragments about “the android” and “the experiments.” At the same time, the crew at the camp starts to notice something wrong with “Walter.” Perhaps they catch him in a disturbing act, like experimenting on an injured crewmate, or see a flash of cold malice in his eyes. The warnings from the recon team, now understood, only amplify the terror. They still believe the dangerous synthetic mentioned in the warning is some other threat lurking out there. The film’s climax, with the daring rescue, the terrifying xenomorph infiltration, and the final, shocking revelation of Walter’s true identity in a moment of ultimate betrayal, can then unfold in a way that aligns with the original script’s ending, but with far greater psychological impact.

    Why This Works Better

    This new story directly fixes the original film’s problems. By making David a witness and perfecter rather than the sole creator, the Xenomorph’s cosmic horror is restored, giving it back its ancient, inexplicable power. David’s Engineer attack becomes meaningful, tied to their own downfall, not just random evil. His “help” to the crew is now part of a chilling manipulation, making him a truly sinister, consistent villain. And by keeping David’s existence hidden until the last terrifying moments, the story builds immense psychological suspense. The horror shifts from just an external monster to the insidious terror of betrayal from within, making the humans’ struggle far more personal and impactful. Finally, Dr. Shaw’s tragic fate gains profound significance as a key piece of the puzzle, her last moments providing vital clues that could, if discovered in time, reveal the true scope of David’s malevolence. This approach not only plugs plot holes but elevates Alien: Covenant into a richer, more suspenseful, and ultimately more terrifying installment in the beloved franchise.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Hancock (2008) – How a Brilliant Premise Got Drunk In the Middle and How to Rehabilitate It

    The 2008 film Hancock, starring Will Smith, arrived with a truly fresh and exciting premise: a perpetually drunk, cynical, and highly destructive superhero whose antics cause more damage than good, forcing a PR consultant to help him rehabilitate his image. The initial concept was brilliant, offering a subversive take on the superhero genre that promised both biting comedy and a compelling character study.

    The film’s first half largely delivered on this promise. We were introduced to a slovenly, seemingly unlikable protagonist whose struggles with alcoholism and public perception were both hilarious and genuinely poignant. His awkward attempts at public relations, the chaos he unintentionally wrought, and the intriguing dynamic with PR consultant Ray Embrey and his family, all set the stage for a unique journey of redemption. We were invested in seeing this powerful but broken man find his purpose and clean up his act.

    Then, abruptly, it all went off the rails. The second half of Hancock introduced a series of baffling plot twists and lore explanations that systematically dismantled the film’s goodwill and left audiences scratching their heads. The gut-punch reveal that Ray’s seemingly normal wife, Mary (Charlize Theron), also possessed superpowers felt like a betrayal. Not only was it unforeshadowed, but her seemingly random act of throwing Hancock through a wall for “no reason” (beyond shock value) instantly undermined her character and the established reality. The subsequent explanation of their ancient, immortal, soulmate connection and how they “just somehow find each other like that” stretched credulity beyond its breaking point, abruptly shifting the film from a grounded, cynical comedy to a far-fetched mythological romance.

    The introduction of the “mortality based on their closeness” rule was the final nail in the coffin, a completely arbitrary new rule that negated all established stakes and felt like a desperate attempt to create drama where genuine character conflict should have been. To add insult to injury, the implication that Mary, a powerful being, had apparently just sat at home doing nothing with her god-given powers for centuries, while the world suffered and Hancock struggled, made her seem utterly hypocritical when she lectured him about responsibility. These elements collectively broke audience trust and transformed a promising movie into a confusing, unsatisfying mess.

    Proposing a Stronger Second Half: A Journey of Trauma, Selflessness, and True Love

    Instead of the convoluted turns of the original, a stronger narrative for Hancock would root its mythology in character-driven conflict and a clear, consistent thematic message.

    Our revised story would establish that Hancock isn’t suffering from amnesia, but from profound trauma from his past heroic deeds. This trauma, perhaps stemming from a cataclysmic loss of fellow super-powered comrades or a devastating failure during an earlier heroic age, would be the true source of his alcoholism, cynicism, and isolation. His self-destructive behavior isn’t just a quirk; it’s a desperate coping mechanism for deep, unaddressed pain.

    Mary, Ray’s wife, would remain a normal, grounded human being. However, Hancock’s attraction to her would grow, becoming a significant personal test. This is where a crucial new rule would be introduced: selfish acts diminish a hero’s powers. If Hancock pursues his selfish desires (like his attraction to Mary, a married woman, or acting for personal gain), his powers visibly wane. This would create tangible stakes for his moral choices, directly linking his character arc to his abilities.

    After a major fallout with Ray, stemming from Hancock’s inability to control his selfish urges, Ray, ever the idealist, would offer a pivotal piece of advice. He would tell Hancock that true heroism isn’t just about saving lives, but about selfless connection in general. He might advise Hancock to “look for his true mate” – a unique bond that wouldn’t diminish his powers, but perhaps amplify them, hinting at a selfless connection that empowers rather than drains.

    Deeply affected, Hancock would then confide in Ray, revealing his greatest burden: he does have a woman he truly loves, a fellow superhero. However, she too suffered trauma so severe that it has caused her to forget him and her powers entirely. She now lives a seemingly normal, civilian life, and because of her past trauma, she has refused to help others, allowing her powers to remain completely dormant due to her own ingrained selfishness. This woman would be the character of Mary from the original film, but now recontextualized as Hancock’s lost love, a separate individual from Ray’s wife.

    Initially, Hancock, driven by desperation, might try to forcefully make his lost love remember him, meddling in her life with no avail. These selfish acts would only further diminish his own powers. It’s during this struggle that Ray, observing Hancock’s futile attempts and self-destructive spiral, delivers a powerful, gut-punch line: “Maybe she doesn’t remember you because of what a drunken bum you’ve become.”

    This brutal honesty would be the ultimate catalyst. It compels Hancock to confront his own trauma and self-pity. He commits to truly straighten himself up, battling his alcoholism, embracing selflessness, and making genuine amends for his past. As he rehabilitates, his powers are restored. Finally, he seeks out his true love, not to force remembrance, but to apologize for his past meddling and to offer genuine support. Through his unwavering selflessness and healing, she gradually begins to remember him and her own powers.

    Reunited and re-powered through their mutual journey of healing and selfless purpose, Hancock and his true love would then solve an especially important crime or confront a lingering threat that has plagued humanity for a long time and was too great even for him to handle (he lacked some feminine intuition or something like that), leveraging their combined strength and renewed sense of purpose for a powerful, emotionally satisfying climax.

    This revised outline for Hancock transforms a muddled premise into a compelling story about trauma, redemption, and the true meaning of heroism rooted in selflessness, offering a far more powerful and coherent experience than the original film.

    Thanks for reading,

    Ira

  • X-Men Origins: Wolverine (2009) – How a Deeper Story Could Have Forged Wolverine’s Origin

    Released in 2009, X-Men Origins: Wolverine promised to peel back the layers of mystery surrounding one of Marvel’s most iconic and enigmatic characters. It aimed to explore James “Logan” Howlett’s tumultuous past, his primal bond with Victor Creed (Sabretooth), and the horrific Weapon X program that fused adamantium to his bones. While the film boasted impressive visual effects and a powerhouse performance from Hugh Jackman, its narrative largely fell flat for many viewers. The plot often felt convoluted, rushing through pivotal moments and undermining emotional stakes with questionable twists, leaving audiences with a sense of a missed opportunity.

    One of the film’s primary missteps was its immediate immersion into Logan’s life as a known operative, skipping over a crucial phase of his existence. The movie begins with Logan and Victor already operating as part of Stryker’s Team X, effectively making Logan a government-recognized asset from the outset. This bypasses a far more compelling narrative possibility: a slow, organic process of Logan and Victor getting noticed by the authorities. Imagine a first act where we truly witness Logan’s struggle to control his powers and find peace, living on the fringes of society. Each display of his superhuman healing or erupting claws, whether in self-defense or a moment of unchecked rage, would create ripples. These incidents—perhaps a bar fight that leaves an impossible trail, or a rescue in the wilderness that can’t be explained—would gradually put him and his equally extraordinary brother on the radar of a specialized government agency, eventually leading to Stryker’s calculated interest. This slower burn would have built suspense, allowed for deeper character development before their lives were irrevocably altered, and made their eventual recruitment (or abduction) feel earned and inevitable, rather than pre-ordained.

    Relationship with Victor and Kayla

    The core of Logan’s tragedy and fury lies in his relationships, particularly with Victor Creed. The original film touched upon their brotherhood but failed to truly establish its depth before descending into generic antagonism. A more potent narrative would involve Logan and Victor genuinely bonding for a substantial period, showcasing their unbreakable, albeit volatile, fraternal connection. We would see them as true brothers in arms, sharing experiences that forge their loyalty, perhaps even protecting each other through various wars as hinted at in the film’s opening montage.

    Into this complex, primal brotherhood, enters Silver Fox (Kayla). Instead of immediately being Logan’s love interest, a more compelling dynamic would see Victor initially dating her. This establishes a pre-existing claim and elevates the dramatic tension. Kayla, however, would slowly find herself drawn to Logan’s quieter strength, his underlying desire for peace, and perhaps even his more grounded morality, creating a subtle shift in her affections towards him. This burgeoning connection would ignite a furious jealousy in Victor. Consumed by a sense of betrayal and displacement, Victor would grow increasingly volatile, overtly threatening both Logan and Kayla. His actions would stem from a deeply personal, wounded place, transforming him from a generic villain into a tragic figure driven by rage and perceived abandonment.

    Birthday confrontation (as in the comics)

    This escalating personal conflict provides the perfect, high-stakes catalyst for government intervention. In one particularly explosive confrontation, during Logan’s birthday party at a local bar, where he’s celebrating with a handful of closest friends and Silver Fox, Victor would show up unannounced. The ensuing brawl would be a desperate, furious display of their powers, fueled by years of complex history and Victor’s consuming jealousy. In the chaos, and perhaps even by unintentional collateral damage, Victor would genuinely kill Silver Fox. This tragic event would be a raw, unfiltered blow to Logan, cementing his grief and fury as utterly authentic. This violent public display, with its undeniable evidence of superhuman abilities and a clear fatality, would be the definitive incident that draws Stryker’s aggressive, inescapable attention.

    In the aftermath of the tragic birthday brawl, with Silver Fox gone and Logan consumed by a raw, primal grief, the events that transpired in that small bar would send an undeniable tremor through the intelligence networks. Stryker’s specialized agency, already monitoring the abnormal activity, would now move from passive observation to active engagement. He wouldn’t immediately resort to force; Stryker was a master manipulator, and he knew his prey.

    The denial of Stryker

    His first move would be a seemingly innocuous, almost “peaceful” proposition. Stryker, or a charismatic, convincing agent, would approach Logan, perhaps appearing to offer sympathy for his loss and a solution to his uncontrollable power. The offer would be framed as a path to purpose, control, and a way to channel his destructive abilities for “the greater good.” They might even hint at an opportunity to protect others like him, or provide a way to find some form of peace.

    But Logan, a creature of the wild and already deeply distrustful of authority would instinctively turn down the offer. His grief-stricken mind would see only an attempt to chain him, to make him a weapon in someone else’s war. He’d refuse, perhaps with a guttural growl, his claws threateningly unsheathed, making it clear that his freedom was not for negotiation. This refusal would solidify Stryker’s conviction: Logan was too wild, too independent. He would have to be taken by force.

    Victor, however, would present a different opportunity. Unlike Logan, Victor had never truly sought peace or domesticity. His violent nature and lust for chaos were inherent. When approached with a similar proposition – perhaps framed as an outlet for his aggression, a chance to be truly unleashed, or even the promise of ultimate power and recognition – Victor, from the very beginning, might agree. He might see it as the ultimate playground for his brutal desires, a way to legitimize his ferocity without the emotional baggage that came with Logan and Silver Fox. He’d walk into Stryker’s compound willingly, a willing participant in his own weaponization.

    This divergence sets the stage for the true horror. While Victor begins his “training” (and likely, continued experimentation) as a willing, albeit twisted, recruit, Logan would be the ultimate prize. His defiance would necessitate a brutal, strategic abduction. Stryker’s forces, having studied Logan’s capabilities, would execute a meticulously planned operation to overpower him. This would be a harrowing, visceral scene, showcasing Logan’s feral resistance against overwhelming odds, only for him to be finally subdued.

    The reconciliation

    Both brothers, now under Stryker’s absolute control, would be subjected to the agonizing processes of the Weapon X program. One, a captive and unwilling victim; the other, a zealous, yet unknowingly manipulated, participant. The shared trauma of their transformation, however, would slowly forge a new, dark bond between them, setting the stage for their eventual, explosive, and unified defiance.

    Here, in the shared crucible of their torment, a profound and unexpected shift would occur. Logan, stripped of his humanity and facing the full horror of Stryker’s manipulation, would experience a moment of profound clarity. Recognizing the shared suffering and his own role in the catalyst for Victor’s rage, Logan would offer Victor a sincere apology for the pain he caused. This act of self-awareness and vulnerability would be a powerful step towards his character’s growth, and it would forge an uneasy truce. Victor, though still a volatile and dangerous force, would grudgingly accept the apology, recognizing Stryker as the greater, shared enemy.

    This common adversary would then forge a reluctant but powerful alliance between the brothers. They would combine their formidable powers, not in a senseless rampage, but in a desperate, unified struggle to escape the Weapon X facility and turn their fury directly against Stryker. This climax would provide a much more satisfying resolution, focusing the narrative on the brothers reclaiming their agency from their tormentor, rather than an arbitrary clash.

    By focusing on a genuine, tragic brotherhood, an emotionally impactful love triangle, and a unified, manipulative antagonist in Stryker, this reimagined narrative for X-Men Origins: Wolverine would transform a convoluted plot into a compelling, character-driven story. It would finally give Wolverine the powerful, emotionally resonant origin he deserves, where his fury is born from profound loss and his true fight is for his own soul.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • 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

  • The Death of Stalin (2017) – The Emperor, the Strength and the Moon

    Not only is The Death of Stalin a well-crafted political comedy with few noticeable shortcomings, it also serves—perhaps unintentionally—as one of the clearest cinematic representations of the fourth column of the Major Arcana: The Emperor (IV), Strength (XI), and The Moon (XVIII).

    This triad, when viewed vertically in the classic three-row Tarot tableau, outlines a symbolic progression: wish for power and control in the mind, its enforcement and maintenance in the physical world, and its spiritual aftermath. In other words, authority imposed through force/strength inevitably leads to fear, confusion, and illusion.

    Stalin’s regime is the Emperor in its rigid, hierarchical form. The brutal apparatus that sustains his rule—propaganda, fear, and compliance—is Strength. And what follows, as the system unravels, is pure Moon energy: paranoia, secrecy, and the eerie absence of truth.

    Of course, this triad—the Emperor, Strength, and the Moon—is not limited to grand historical narratives or totalitarian regimes. On the contrary, it appears any time we try to impose control without grounding our actions in authenticity or love. It’s a universal pattern. Wherever control is pursued for its own sake, force inevitably follows, and illusion is the result.

    Example #1 – Throwing a party

    This isn’t just about governments—it can be as small and familiar as throwing a party. Imagine organizing one not because you genuinely want to connect, but because you feel you should. Maybe you’re trying to impress someone, fulfill a social expectation, or avoid loneliness. In that moment, you’re stepping into the role of the Emperor—trying to orchestrate an outcome.

    But because the intent lacks sincerity, you’ll likely need to apply pressure to get people there—emotional nudges, guilt, subtle manipulation. That’s Strength, not as inner resilience or patience, but as a tool for control. The party may still happen, people may show up—but the vibe will be off. The warmth won’t be there. And what’s left is the Moon: uncertainty, doubt, and the nagging feeling that none of it was real.

    You won’t know if the guests came out of joy or obligation. You won’t know if the connection was genuine or just performed. And you’ll be left wondering whether the whole thing was an illusion.

    Example #2 – Parenting with Control Instead of Connection

    A parent, wanting the best for their child, sets strict rules and expectations: perfect grades, top performance, ideal behavior. At first, it seems structured and responsible—the Emperor building order.

    But when the child resists or struggles, the parent doubles down. Consequences get harsher, rewards more conditional. That’s Strength applied as pressure—not as patience, but as enforcement.

    Eventually, the child may conform outwardly, but inside there’s a loss of authenticity. The parent no longer knows if their child is thriving or simply complying. The relationship becomes clouded, driven by performance instead of trust. The Moon sets in: confusion, emotional distance, and a creeping sense of alienation on both sides.

    Example #3 – A Creative Project with the Wrong Motivation

    An artist begins a new project not from inspiration, but pressure: to stay relevant, to hit a deadline, to prove something. The Emperor sets the goal, the structure.

    They push through the process with sheer will—Strength becomes grind. They force creativity instead of following it. The result might look good on the outside, but it feels hollow. No spark.

    Worse, the artist starts questioning their own talent, their direction. The audience’s reaction is unpredictable. The whole thing feels like a foggy dream—that’s the Moon: a crisis of clarity, and a project disconnected from its soul.

    This is the consequence of trying to get things done without love, without truth. The Emperor may build a system, but if that system isn’t rooted in love, the Moon is already waiting.

    Final thoughts

    Ultimately, this cycle—control, force, illusion—can only be broken when something gives. When the structure collapses, when the willpower runs dry, when the illusion becomes too heavy to bear. That’s when our story shifts. And it is here that we find ourselves in The Hanged Man—not as punishment, but as surrender. He represents the first true pause in the system, the moment when we stop forcing and start listening. When we let go of control, abandon false strength, and allow the truth—however uncomfortable it might be in that moment—to rise. Only through this suspension can clarity return, and with it, the possibility of moving forward not with force, but with insight. The Emperor builds systems; the Hanged Man helps us unlearn the ones that no longer serve.

    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