Arcaneya

Category: Storytelling

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

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

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

    The Problem of Being Chosen

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

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

    Reintroducing Ambiguity

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

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

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

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

    Agency Restored, Ending Enriched

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

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

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

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

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

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

    Act 1 – The Kingdom of Love

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

    Act 2 – The Freeze of the Heart

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

    Act 3 – Exile and Redemption

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

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Frozen II (2019): A Plate Full of Toppings, but No Pizza

    The long-awaited sequel to Frozen arrived with all the visual flair and musical brilliance audiences expected. The animation was top-notch, the musical numbers catchy, and Olaf remained a comedic highlight. Yet despite these strengths, the story of Frozen II feels horribly disjointed. Scenes unfold with little logical connection, characters act in ways that often defy reason, and the bigger narrative picture seems almost absent.

    It’s like going for a pizza and being served a plate full of delicious toppings: gorgeous animation, dazzling visuals, and charming musical interludes. But the dough, the grounding narrative that holds everything together, is missing. The sauce, the emotional throughline that connects each scene and gives stakes their weight, is barely there. Each element works in isolation, but the overall meal is incomplete.

    Instead of offering solutions or a reimagined structure, this article will focus purely on numbering and commenting on some of the storytelling missteps the movie presents. In cronological order:

    1. Opening Lullaby

    The film begins with a lullaby, unintentionally suggesting a sleepy, passive tone rather than drawing viewers into adventure.

    2. Elsa Hearing a Voice

    Elsa suddenly begins hearing a mysterious voice directing her actions. There is no foreshadowing or grounding for this plot device, which makes her abilities feel even more “special” and further disconnects her from the audience. Following a voice also strips her of agency, preventing her from making meaningful choices and experiencing their consequences—the very spine of the story.

    3. Permafrost Olaf

    Olaf’s newfound and unexplained immunity to all temperatures removes stakes, undermines humor, and retroactively contradicts the first movie and his famous song “In Summer”.

    4. Wind Gust/Quake Inciting Incident

    A massive wind gust and trembling ground strike Arendelle with no context or logic, serving only to force characters into action.

    5. Kristoff’s Proposal Timing

    Kristoff struggles with proposing to Anna in the middle of a high-stakes quest, undermining both the quest’s importance and narrative pacing.

    6. Enchanted Forest Logic

    The enchanted forest magically blocks entry for everyone except the protagonists, with no explanation for why or how.

    7. Olaf Recap Performance

    In the middle of the film, Olaf reenacts the entirety of Frozen I, delivering exposition in the most disruptive and unprecedented way. Momentum halts, immersion dies, and the audience is treated to a meta-summary instead of organic story progression.

    8. Fire Salamander

    Introduced as an antagonist, the fire salamander has no meaningful role, serving only as visual spectacle.

    9. Earth Giant

    Similarly, the earth giants hinted as angatonists exist solely to later conveniently destroy the dam. No thematic or narrative purpose is attached.

    10. Obsession with Four Elements

    The elemental mythology is introduced without grounding or payoff. Elsa being the fifth element contributes nothing to the story. The four elements (wind, fire, water, earth) therefore largely serve as intrigue attempts, unrelated to character arcs or story stakes.

    11. Memory-from-Water Shortcut

    Elsa extracts her parents’ past and other ancestral events directly from water. This removes suspense and discovery, making the story feel instantly convenient and lazy.

    12. Shipwreck Slide Geography

    Anna slides hundreds of vertical meters despite starting at sea level—a physics/logical inconsistency.

    13. Water Horse Taming

    Elsa suddenly tames a water horse without preparation, foreshadowing, or explanation, escalating her powers arbitrarily. Water horse apparently symbolizes water spirit. I don’t think the story understands the word ‘spirit’. And why horse?

    14. Memory Transfer to Anna

    Elsa magically sends “the memory” directly to Anna’s location, undermining the existance of space/time and also bypassing Anna’s agency. I’d say when going to see movie like that, audience wanted some freedom from this mobile-phone type events.

    15. Freezing/Unfreezing Arbitrarily

    Elsa freezes at the climax for no apparent reason. Then with no apparent connection to Anna’s actions, she just unfreazes. Consequences are removed, collapsing tension.

    16. Anna’s Dam Destruction

    Anna destroys the dam thinking Elsa is dead, endangering Arendelle. The story relies entirely on Elsa surviving to justify her actions.

    17. Olaf Resurrected

    Olaf is brought back at the end, nullifying any remaining stakes and logic. Although yes, water does seem to have memory.

    18. Nothing to do with Elsa’s abilities

    Lets face it, this new story and Elsa’s quest has really nothing to do with her powers. There’s no big picture.

    19. Story Feels Like a Hallucination

    The rest of the narrative, full of visions, spirits, and arbitrary magical events, resembles a fragmented, psychedelic collage more than a coherent story. What is the deal with that glacier land of memories anyway? Perhaps the opening lullaby explains it was all just a dream.

    Conclusion

    Frozen II is a perfect example of creativity buckling under corporate pressure. Even the most talented teams, when forced to meet deadlines or appease audience expectations, can lose sight of the bigger picture. The movie’s spectacular visuals and music are undeniable, but the story itself collapses under shortcuts, inconsistent logic, and unearned conveniences. Inspiration in undeniably the first thing to suffer under pressure. What remains is the ego which is literally nothing and therefore can’t create anything meaningfull.

    The idea of “Into the Unknown” is, in itself, a powerful and deeply resonant concept. It evokes the timeless human search for God, the universe, love or the very purpose of life. A sequel built around such themes could have offered a profound journey that blended spectacle with meaning. The film did gesture at this foundation, but instead of following through, it derailed into scattered plotlines and disconnected tropes. A more focused vision would have allowed Frozen II to honor the depth behind its own title and become a story of discovery, not of the detour.

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

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

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

    The Problem of the Special One

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

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

    Inheriting the Frozen Heart

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

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

    A Shaman’s Warning and a Sister’s Counterbalance

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

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

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

    A Death With Consequence

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

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

    Why This Change Helps Everything Else

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

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

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

    Thank you,

    Ira

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

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

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

    Why the Book Worked and the Movie Did Not

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

    Giving Artemis the Proper Path

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

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

    The Dark Revelation

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

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

    Reimagining the Fairies

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

    The Proper Ending

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

    Thank you,

    Ira

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

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

    Marshall’s Desperate Need for Redemption

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

    The Land of the Lost as His Internal Battlefield

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

    The Clash of Realities: Marshall vs. Lauer

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

    Redemption in the Right Form

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

    Why This Would Work

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

    Conclusion: The Movie That Could Have Been

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

    Thank you!

    Ira

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

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

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

    An Alternative Outline for Watson’s Growth

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

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

    Final Thoughts

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

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Sherlock Holmes: The Origin Story – Becoming the Detective We Know

    Few attempts have been made to explore the beginnings of Sherlock Holmes, and Doyle himself left almost no hints about the formative years of his extraordinary detective. Most adaptations either leap straight into the legend or tinker superficially with his youth. Here, we imagine a coherent origin story, showing how Holmes became the brilliant, eccentric, almost mythic figure we recognize today.

    Early Talent and Ambition

    Even as a young man, Sherlock displayed flashes of genius. He could solve minor mysteries, notice patterns others missed, and anticipate outcomes with uncanny precision. Yet these early successes were fragile; they depended on his natural intuition, and he lacked the discipline to sustain it.

    Into this early phase steps a brilliant, independent woman. She sees nothing remarkable in him yet, and this fuels Sherlock’s desire — he wants to impress her, to prove himself. She is unknowing inspiration, the spark that motivates him to push beyond his limited skill.

    The Pressure and the Fall

    Driven by his desire to impress her and live up to his own ambitions, Sherlock begins to force his deductions. He overthinks cases, cuts ethical corners, and even experiments with shady bribes to extract information. His attempts to control the outcomes fail spectacularly. The more he forces the issue, the more his abilities falter, until his talent seems to desert him entirely.

    Eventually, the strain — mental, emotional, and physical — catches up. He falls ill, and the world sees him as a failure. The young woman, who once inspired him, becomes distant. Her judgmental or disappointed reactions, combined with societal whispers, drive him further into isolation.

    The Year of Idleness

    Sherlock retreats completely. For an entire year, he abandons ambition and the chase for recognition. He fiddles with trivial experiments, indulges in odd hobbies, and spends days doing nothing of consequence. This period of idleness, while seemingly wasteful, is actually crucial: it allows his mind to reset, free from the constant pressure that had previously broken him.

    During this time, he develops eccentric habits and begins masking his vulnerabilities. He learns to conceal himself from judgmental eyes, laying the groundwork for the persona Doyle’s readers would later know: aloof, enigmatic, and intimidatingly composed.

    The Spark on the Park Bench

    One day, while sitting on a park bench, completely idle and masked, Sherlock stares blankly at the sky. His mind, finally quiet, begins to see — patterns emerge from ordinary observations. Across the square, he notices his friends struggling with a small case. Normally, he would have needed investigation, questioning, or planning. But now, his intuition pieces together the culprit’s motive, behavior, and likely actions.

    Crucially, he is still masked as he approaches. His friends do not recognize him, allowing him to observe naturally. This moment crystallizes his first true “Holmesian” deduction — a leap from observation to insight — and signals the rebirth of his genius.

    The Woman and the Burden

    By the time Sherlock’s intuition begins to function at full capacity, the woman who once inspired him notices the change. She admires his brilliance, is drawn to him, and even falls for him. Yet her presence, once a spark, now becomes a distraction — a burden on the singular focus his extraordinary mind requires. This dynamic explains why Holmes will remain detached and almost asexual in later life: attachments threaten the clarity that defines him.

    Becoming Holmes

    From these experiences, the young detective emerges fully formed:

    • Eccentric habits become tools, not quirks.
    • The mask that once concealed weakness becomes part of his identity.
    • Intuition and deduction are no longer forced but natural.
    • Emotional detachment, born from inspiration, failure, and burden, ensures he can pursue truth above all else.

    By collapsing, idling, and finally allowing his mind to awaken on its own, Sherlock Holmes becomes more than a clever boy solving small puzzles — he becomes a mythic figure, the brilliant and eccentric detective whose fame will echo through literature.

    This origin story preserves the essence of Doyle’s Holmes while giving him a transformational arc: ambition, failure, collapse, inspiration, and rebirth. The narrative also integrates a humanizing element — a woman who shapes him, yet whom he ultimately outgrows — providing emotional depth without undermining the detective’s legendary detachment.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • She’s Out of My League (2010): The Justice Balancing Principle And Its Devil Agents

    She’s Out of My League is often seen as a lighthearted romantic comedy about an “average” guy, Kirk, getting the attention of an idealized woman, Molly. On the surface, it’s a funny, awkward story about social mismatches and improbable romance. But beneath the jokes lies a profound archetypal structure that can illuminate why his journey resonates—and why the film’s original execution falters.

    At the heart of this structure is what we can call the balancing principle, a phenomenon rooted both in social psychology and archetypal symbolism. Whenever someone begins to rise—approaching love, light, or a higher state of being—the universe, or more precisely the subconscious forces of their social environment, instinctively works to restore equilibrium. In the movie, these forces are Kirk’s friends, family, and social circumstances—the agents of undercutting.

    Justice and the Balancing Principle

    The 8th archetype, Justice, governs balance between good and bad, light and shadow. When Kirk starts moving closer to Molly, who represents love and radiant light, he is literally exceeding the average level of his world. Justice, symbolically, cannot allow unbalanced ascension without challenge. The balancing principle manifests as social friction, testing the hero’s readiness for higher connection.

    This principle explains why, even as Molly shows interest, Kirk is met with skepticism, ridicule, and pressure from his friends and family. Their shocked, mocking, or incredulous reactions are not just comedic beats—they are the mechanisms of balance, pushing him to confront his own fears, insecurities, and social conditioning.

    The Devil Archetype: Agents of Undercutting

    These external pressures, combined with Kirk’s own internal doubts, can be seen as manifestations of the Devil archetype. Friends making jokes, family expressing disbelief, and even Kirk’s ex-girlfriend all operate as agents who tempt him to retreat, sabotage his ascent, or doubt his worth.

    In real life and in archetypal terms, these “Devil” forces serve an essential purpose: they test whether the hero’s rise toward light is genuine and sustainable. They force him to confront shadow aspects—fear, inadequacy, hesitation—so that when he finally moves toward love, his ascent is earned rather than accidental.

    Molly as Love and Light

    Molly functions symbolically as the beacon of what Kirk aspires to: radiant energy, self-assuredness, and the emotional clarity of love. Approaching her is not merely a romantic goal—it represents moving toward higher consciousness and alignment with life-affirming forces. This proximity to light automatically triggers the balancing principle.

    Her presence highlights Kirk’s vulnerabilities, and the universe, through the Devil archetype, orchestrates obstacles to ensure that any growth he achieves is self-initiated, not granted by luck. Only by facing these pressures can he stabilize his transformation.

    Earning the Ascent

    A key flaw in the original film is that Kirk does not fully internalize his challenge. When he retreats to his ex and allows Stainer to pull him back, his journey is temporarily resolved externally. The narrative shortcut weakens the archetypal logic: the Devil archetype’s challenge loses potency, and Justice’s balancing test is bypassed.

    A more satisfying, archetypally coherent story would show Kirk first finding his own determination, resisting external undercutting, and taking conscious action toward Molly. Only then can external help—or serendipitous circumstances—serve as reinforcement rather than a crutch. This ensures that his ascent toward love and light is earned and stable, fully satisfying the symbolic rules of the balancing principle.

    Conclusion

    Viewed through the lens of archetypes, She’s Out of My League is more than a rom-com about mismatched dating. It is a narrative of ascent and testing, where Justice maintains equilibrium and the Devil archetype challenges the hero to earn his right to love and light. Molly, as radiant light, naturally triggers subconscious resistance, both social and internal, forcing Kirk to grow.

    Understanding this framework enriches the story: the awkward comedy, the social undercutting, and even the meltdown moments are not just jokes—they are archetypal tests of character, courage, and self-realization. In a reimagined version, making Kirk’s journey internally driven would honor these principles, turning a funny rom-com into a story of genuine, earned transformation.

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

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

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

    An Alternative Outline

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

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

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

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

    Closing Thoughts

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

    Thanks,

    Ira