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