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
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.