Arcaneya

Category: Storytelling

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

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

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

    The Missing Imbalance

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

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

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

    Why Balance Matters

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

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

    A Natural Road Into the Journey

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

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

    The Comedy That Could Have Been

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

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

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

    Where the Film Went Wrong

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

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

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

    A Better Recipe: The Reimagined Outline

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

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

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

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

    Why This Works

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

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

    Building the Mundane World Before Chaos

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

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

    Churches Full of Anxiety

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

    Ethan’s Morally Ambiguous Motivation

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

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

    Paranoia and Dark Humor

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

    Setting Up Purge Night

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

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

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

    The Missed Opportunity for Absurdity

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

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

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

    The Confrontation and the Cosmic Prank

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

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

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

    Why This Would Work

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

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

    Thank you,

    Ira

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

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

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

    The Fatal Sale

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

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

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

    The Walls Closing In

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

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

    The Confession

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

    It is repentance, not rebellion.

    The Aftermath

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

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

    A Story That Lingers

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

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

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

    The Flight That Ruined the Journey

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

    How It Could Have Worked Instead

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

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

    Why This Change Matters

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

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

    The Three Plot Issues

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

    Proposing a Better Approach

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

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

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

    Why These Changes Matter

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

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

    The Problem With the Midpoint Reveal

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

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

    The Fix: McCord the Reluctant Keeper of Secrets

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

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

    This does three important things:

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

    How It Changes the Second Half

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

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

    Why This Small Change Matters

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

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

    The Original Arc: Proving Himself Again

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

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

    An Alternative Arc: Jealousy and Distraction

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

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

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

    Would It Work Better?

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

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

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

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

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

    A Love Story That Devours

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

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

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

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

    Redemption on the Edge of Devouring

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

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

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

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

    Why This Works

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

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

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

    Thanks,

    Ira