Arcaneya

Blog

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    Thanks for reading,

    Ira

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

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

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

    Relationship with Victor and Kayla

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

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

    Birthday confrontation (as in the comics)

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

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

    The denial of Stryker

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

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

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

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

    The reconciliation

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

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

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

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

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Elysium (2013) – Reimagining the Story Without the Gunfire

    Released in 2013, Neill Blomkamp’s Elysium presented a stark, visually stunning vision of a dystopian future. The film introduced us to a world where the ultra-wealthy reside on a pristine, orbital paradise called Elysium, while the vast majority of humanity toils in squalor on a ravaged Earth. At its heart, the premise promised a potent commentary on wealth inequality, healthcare access, and the human cost of a divided society. However, despite its compelling concept and impressive visuals, many viewers, myself included, felt the narrative ultimately stumbled, frequently becoming overshadowed by its own relentless action sequences.

    The original film follows Max Da Costa (Matt Damon), an ex-con exposed to a lethal dose of radiation, whose only hope for survival is a medical trip to Elysium. What unfolds is a fast-paced, often brutal journey filled with intense combat. While the action was undoubtedly well-executed, it frequently felt like the raison d’être of the plot, rather than a natural extension of character motivation or thematic exploration. Max’s desperation, initially so palpable, seemed to get lost as he was pulled into a larger, more revolutionary agenda by the underground operative, Spider. The sheer volume of fighting often strained credulity, particularly given Max’s terminal illness, and the strategic plausibility of Spider’s audacious plan to infiltrate Elysium felt thin. The core message of the film, therefore, risked being drowned out by the noise of battle.

    But what if Elysium‘s potent themes and stunning world were given a different narrative engine? What if the storytelling prioritized personal stakes, character evolution, and a more gradual escalation of conflict over constant spectacle? Here, we propose an alternative plot that aims to “straighten” the narrative, allowing its powerful commentary to resonate more deeply.

    An Alternative Narrative: From Desperation to Selfless Redemption

    Our reimagined story for Elysium centers Max’s journey more deeply in personal connection and a more believable path to both survival and revolutionary impact:

    The narrative begins with Max, not just surviving on Earth, but desperately seeking a way to reconnect with his childhood friend, Frey. He eventually discovers she resides on Elysium. This personal goal fuels his initial, more conventional attempts to reach the station—through political appeals, bureaucratic channels, and even some shady dealings—each met with disheartening failure. These setbacks slowly build his frustration and despair.

    When Max is exposed to the fatal radiation, his desire to reach Elysium transforms into a desperate race against time. He appeals to governments and authorities, not just as a plea for life, but with a raw sense of entitlement, arguing that their negligence and the very existence of Elysium are responsible for his and humanity’s plight. His appeals, however, fall on deaf ears. Mad with frustration and the encroaching illness, Max lashes out, perhaps destroying property or causing a disturbance, leading to his permanent exclusion from any official waiting lists for Elysium.

    This exclusion forces Max into the clandestine world of Spider. Instead of a direct assault, Spider’s plan for Max is more surgical: a high-stakes hack to swap Max’s identity with another passenger’s on an inbound Elysium flight. This moment of ethical ambiguity is dramatically heightened when, just before touchdown, alarms blare, and Max is forcibly ejected back to Earth. He soon discovers the devastating truth: he had stolen the seat of a gravely ill daughter whose mother had paid an exorbitant sum for her life-saving trip.

    Back on Earth, dying and consumed by guilt, Max faces the fury of the distraught mother and daughter. This confrontation forces him to confront his actions, leading to a raw, deeply human moment of apology and repentance. In the midst of this despair, a miracle: Max receives word that his original appeal for an Elysium pass has been granted. It’s revealed that Frey, having learned of his condition, leveraged her position and influence on Elysium to secure his access.

    With a final, selfless act of true redemption, Max, despite his rapidly fading life, allows the sick daughter to take his granted place on the next flight. As he prepares to accept his fate, on the brink of death, he receives one last message from Frey: she managed to secure another seat for him. He makes it to Elysium, is healed, and only then, fully recovered and with a renewed sense of purpose, does he truly engage with Spider. Together, they use their combined skills and knowledge from all of the earlier setbacks to systematically challenge the corrupt governments of Elysium, ultimately finding a way to bring down the life-saving med-beds to Earth, ushering in an era of true equality for all.

    This revised plot outline transforms Elysium into a more resonant and powerful story. It anchors the grand sci-fi themes in a deeply personal journey, replaces gratuitous action with earned conflict, and delivers a protagonist whose redemption feels genuinely impactful. Max’s fight becomes not just for himself, but born from his own moral failings and ultimate triumph over desperation, leading to a more satisfying and poignant resolution for a divided world.

    Thank you for reading!

    Ira

  • Jupiter Ascending (2015): The Arc That Could Have Been

    When Jupiter Ascending was first announced, expectations soared. A big-budget, original sci-fi epic from the Wachowskis — the visionary minds behind The Matrix — was rare in a landscape saturated with sequels, reboots, and comic book franchises. With its sprawling galactic dynasties, lavish visuals, and a star-studded cast, it had all the ingredients to be the next space opera phenomenon.

    Instead, it crashed under the weight of its own ambition.

    Critics called it convoluted, messy, and hollow. Audiences found it difficult to follow, emotionally distant, and ultimately forgettable. And while the movie has since found a small cult following, it never lived up to its potential. Beneath the noise, there was a decent story — clever sci-fi concepts about reincarnation, genetic dynasties, and the commodification of life — but that story never found its footing.

    And at the heart of that failure was one fatal flaw: Jupiter Jones herself.

    A Hero With No Journey

    Jupiter is introduced as a humble maid, scrubbing toilets and resenting her life. But rather than being bitter or restless, she’s strangely… gracious. Humble, kind, self-effacing — already displaying the maturity and wisdom of someone who’s supposedly going to grow. When she learns she’s not only special, but the genetic reincarnation of a space queen and rightful owner of Earth, she reacts with mild confusion, but little conflict. She declines a throne she didn’t ask for, gets whisked from place to place, and mostly lets others explain what’s happening.

    The issue isn’t that she’s unlikable — it’s that she’s underwritten. She’s passive, reactive, and never really seems to want anything, which makes it hard to invest in her journey. Her character arc is essentially flat. There’s no temptation, no internal struggle, and no transformation.

    In a genre that thrives on evolution — Luke learning the Force, Neo waking up from the Matrix, even Sarah Connor becoming the warrior her future demands — Jupiter doesn’t evolve. She just floats through.

    What Her Arc Should Have Been

    There’s a version of Jupiter Ascending that could have worked beautifully. And it starts by flipping Jupiter’s starting point.

    Instead of being humble and kind, Jupiter should begin the story resentful and selfish. Not cartoonishly evil — just a person beaten down by life, desperate for more. She hates her job. She envies the rich. She dreams of luxury. She’s tired of being invisible and underappreciated.

    So when someone tells her she’s galactic royalty? That she owns a planet and is heir to unimaginable wealth and power? She wants it. She grabs it. She believes she deserves it.

    This version of Jupiter would enter the world of the Abrasax siblings not as an outsider, but as someone who resonates with their twisted values. She’d feel at home with their decadence, their obsession with power, their casual disregard for “lesser” lives. For a while, she might even start to become one of them.

    But over time, she’d see the cost. She’d witness the exploitation behind the empire. She’d discover that the very luxury she once craved is built on suffering. And slowly, painfully, she’d begin to change.

    The climax wouldn’t be about rejecting a throne she never wanted. It would be about walking away from one she once desired — and finally choosing humility, responsibility, and connection over control.

    In the end, she wouldn’t just inherit the Earth. She’d become one with it. Grounded. Human. Changed.

    Why It Matters

    Great sci-fi stories don’t just wow us with visuals or elaborate lore — they anchor us with human truth. They give us heroes who reflect our flaws and show us how to rise above them.

    The tragedy of Jupiter Ascending is that it had the ingredients. The bones of an epic were all there — vast empires, moral complexity, even a spiritual subtext about identity and value. But without a strong, evolving character at the center, it never landed.

    If Jupiter had truly changed — if she had started selfish and learned selflessness through loss, through temptation, through revelation — she could have been one of the great sci-fi heroines.

    Instead, we got a queen with no crown, no fire, and no journey.

    Thank you for reading and following! 🙂

    Ira

  • Jupiter Ascending (2015): How a Different Opening Scene Could Have Saved the Movie

    When Jupiter Ascending was first announced, it sounded like exactly the kind of movie science fiction fans were starving for — an original, big-budget space opera not tied to a franchise, made by the Wachowskis, the same minds that gave us The Matrix. The premise promised intergalactic dynasties, flying cities, alien bounty hunters, and a secret war over the fate of Earth, all wrapped around the story of an ordinary woman who discovers she’s galactic royalty.

    But what we got was something far messier.

    The film is visually stunning and undeniably ambitious, but narratively overstuffed and archetypally totally confused. Important concepts are handed to us through long-winded exposition dumps — convenient shortcuts for storytelling sinners. Action scenes explode across the screen before the audience has any idea what’s at stake. And Jupiter herself feels like a passenger in her own story, learning what the plot means only after we’ve already been lost in it for 30 minutes. Unfortunately, that passivity never really leaves her — it lingers through almost the entire film. Even when she takes action independently, it doesn’t feel like she was meant to be in that position in the first place. But that’s a whole new subject for another article.

    It’s not that Jupiter Ascending lacks an interesting plot — it actually has some genuinely clever sci-fi ideas. The film imagines a universe where genetic recurrence determines inheritance, where interstellar corporations treat planets like crops, and where human life is just another resource to be traded. That’s rich material. But it needed a better launchpad — something to ground the audience, explain the rules of this universe, and set the tone before the gravity boots kicked in. Without any early context, the movie throws viewers into a galaxy crowded with unfamiliar factions, hierarchies, and motivations — winged bodyguards, lizard men, space dynasties — all without telling us what any of it means. The result isn’t wonder, it’s confusion. Instead of building intrigue, it overwhelms. We’re supposed to care about who’s chasing Jupiter before we even know why she matters — or who she really is. Bottom line: the story desperately needed a better opening.

    Alternative opening proposal

    Opening: A pair of bored alien bureaucrats sift through endless genetic profiles on their space computers, casually chuckling over a notorious war criminal who’s been reborn as a toddler on some backwater, low-tech planet. One jokes about how many times this particular troublemaker has come back, each time more ridiculous than the last — maybe this incarnation will finally teach him to behave. Then they scroll past more files: a famous ancient poet now working as a low-level fast-food cashier, a celebrated philosopher reincarnated as a karaoke lounge singer, and a galactic princess reborn as a particularly mischievous house cat or something like that. Each reincarnation is treated like a bureaucratic headache and source of dry humor. It’s a funny throwaway gag that hints at a vast bureaucracy tracking reincarnations across the galaxy, treating reincarnation more like annoying paperwork than cosmic destiny. Then, just as the scene leans into this dark humor, the tone abruptly shifts. A new alert pops up: a perfect genetic match for Seraphi Abrasax. The room goes silent. The stakes suddenly become real.

    Now that would be an opening!

    In just two minutes, the film could establish its rules, its tone, and its stakes — while also winking at the audience and deflating the “chosen one” trope in a way that sets us up to actually care when the lasers start flying. Here’s why that one opening joke could have made all the difference.

    Smash cut to Earth

    Jupiter Jones is scrubbing a toilet in a dim, fluorescent-lit bathroom, her face blank with routine. No dreamy narration, no mystical birth sequence, no hints at greatness — just rubber gloves, a sponge, and a dead-end job. It’s a hard cut from a sleek alien lab to a world of dull repetition and invisible lives. And that’s the point.

    By skipping the melodramatic birth scene and starting with the grit of Jupiter’s day-to-day boredom, the film would build a stronger emotional contrast. Boredom — or spiritual darkness — is one of the best places to begin character development towards her light.

    And with that kind of groundwork — a clear, humorous introduction to the universe’s rules, followed by a grounded and relatable look at Jupiter’s life — the story would have been far easier to follow and, more importantly, easier to enjoy.

    Thank you for reading,

    Ira

  • The Eternals (2021) – When Bigger Isn’t Better

    This is truly getting out of hand, folks. Eternals stands as the perfect example of a movie that tries to be bigger and better—not by perfecting its script or story—but by cramming in as many heroes as possible, making them increasingly god-like, and blowing the villain up to planetary proportions. This time, they went all out, making a “baddie” as big as the Earth itself. And, in my opinion (and not just mine), they definitely overstepped.

    The Fantastic Four, X-men

    I would say that for the non-comic world it all started pretty innocently with Marvel’s Fantastic Four—a tight-knit group of heroes you could actually keep track of. I remember watching their animated series as a kid. Each had a distinct personality, manageable powers, and clear interpersonal dynamics. Then came X-Men, and the roster started to grow. It became a little harder to keep count, but it still worked because the characters, despite their unique abilities, weren’t portrayed as gods. They had flaws, internal conflicts, and personal struggles, which made them relatable and grounded. The powers served the story—not the other way around—and that balance is what kept those films enjoyable to watch.

    The Avengers

    But then things started to spiral out of control. For reasons still unclear—aside from chasing spectacle—Marvel decided it was a good idea to cram nearly their entire A-list roster into a single film. The Avengers was the turning point: a massive box office hit, no doubt, but one could reasonably argue that it wasn’t the strength of the story that drew the crowds. Rather, it was the sheer novelty of seeing so many beloved characters on screen at once. It felt more like an event, a cinematic party, than a tightly woven narrative. That party effect worked—once, maybe twice—but it also set a dangerous precedent.

    The competition with DC

    After The Avengers, the floodgates were open. Marvel doubled down on the formula, and soon DC followed suit, launching their own cinematic universe with Justice League and Suicide Squad. But while Marvel had time to build up individual heroes before merging them, DC often rushed the ensemble, trying to catch up in fewer moves. The result? A kind of cinematic arms race, where the number of heroes, their powers, and the scale of threats had to constantly escalate to hold audience attention.

    The Avengers – The Infinity War, Endgame

    By the time we reached Infinity War and Endgame, the villain wasn’t just trying to destroy a city or a planet anymore—he was out to erase half the universe. Thanos became the ultimate expression of this escalation: a godlike being wielding a cosmic glove, snapping people out of existence like it was a housekeeping chore.

    What began as grounded conflicts with human stakes eventually ballooned into abstract, god-tier problems that audiences were increasingly asked to care about. And yet, the higher the stakes went, the harder it became to feel anything. Once you’re dealing with threats so big they’re literally cosmic, it’s easy for characters—and viewers—to get lost in the noise.

    The Eternals

    Which brings us to Eternals. By this point, Marvel had written itself into a corner. After half the universe was snapped and un-snapped, how do you top that? The only direction left was bigger. So they reached into cosmic mythology and pulled out the Eternals—a group of ageless, godlike beings who had been on Earth for 7,000 years, doing… mostly nothing. And because the bar was already set so astronomically high, Marvel didn’t give themselves much choice but to go even bigger: bigger cast, bigger timeline, and yes, a bigger villain. One so massive it was growing out of the Earth’s core. At that point, you’re not just jumping the shark—you’re using a celestial hand to punt it into another galaxy.

    The problem is, no story can bear the weight of this kind of scale. When everyone is a god, nothing feels personal. The characters—though beautifully diverse and occasionally well-acted—rarely connect on a human level. There’s no real intimacy, no grounded stakes. Instead of choices and consequences, we get exposition dumps and sprawling mythology. What was meant to feel epic ends up feeling bloated.

    Finishing thoughts

    In the end, Eternals is less a movie and more a symptom of a larger issue: the blockbuster arms race, where every studio feels compelled to outdo the last with bigger teams, bigger threats, and increasingly divine heroes. But when everything is grandiose, nothing feels grounded. Marvel (and its competitors) now face a critical question: where can we go from here? How many more gods, multiverses, and planet-sized plot devices can audiences absorb before it all collapses under its own weight? Something will have to give. And if these studios want to keep telling stories that resonate, they’ll need to remember a simple truth: size doesn’t matter. Love does.

    Ira

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

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

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

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

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

    Example #1 – Throwing a party

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

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

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

    Example #2 – Parenting with Control Instead of Connection

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

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

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

    Example #3 – A Creative Project with the Wrong Motivation

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

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

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

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

    Final thoughts

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

    Ira

  • Prometheus (2012) – The alternative plot outline

    Why not take a chance and build the story around the least experienced crew member—the trainee biologist? Imagine a version of Prometheus where the heart of the story isn’t buried under philosophical ambiguity and half-baked mythology, but centered on a single, flawed human trying to prove himself.

    This young biologist would start out as a complete greenhorn—nervous, unsure, and unqualified. He signed up for all the wrong reasons: not out of scientific passion or existential curiosity, but because he had a crush on another crew member. Maybe he even lied on his application just to get on the mission. From the moment we meet him—washing his face in the mirror, trying to calm his nerves like Eminem in 8 Mile—we know he’s in over his head. Yet we’d see his vulnerability, and would connect with him emotionally. He’s not a hero—he’s us, dropped into something far bigger than we’re ready for.

    As the expedition begins, he lags behind while the others move with confidence and precision. He slows the team down, makes clumsy mistakes, and clearly doesn’t belong. His fear isn’t just for himself, but for the safety of the entire crew. And eventually, he does mess up—badly. He’s the one who touches the alien snake. Not out of idiocy, but out of desperation to prove he’s capable. The result? Others die, trying to help him, and he’s suspended, blamed, and rightfully chewed out.

    But as the mission spirals into chaos and even the experienced team members start dropping one by one, he’s somewhat exonerated. The crew is shrinking fast, and they need all hands on deck—even him. He gets another chance. This time, he’s determined. He begins to learn from his mistakes. He takes responsibility. Sooner or later, he’s forced to come clean—why he’s really here, what he lied about, and who he let down. He owns up to it all. He apologizes. And in the end, he redeems himself—not by surviving, but by saving at least one other crew member. Maybe even the last one standing—or the very person who doubted him most.

    This version of the story wouldn’t just be tighter—it would be earned. It would give us a meaningful arc, grounded decisions, and a protagonist whose journey we actually care about. And that, more than goo, Engineers, or mythology, is what Prometheus needed most.

    Ira

  • Prometheus (2012) – How To Lose An Audience in 5 seconds

    But don’t get me wrong—Prometheus starts strong. It does everything right to capture the audience’s attention: stunning visuals, a mysterious setup, grand philosophical questions about humanity’s origins. That’s no small feat, especially when your story hinges on the search for what’s essentially a cosmic MacGuffin. But then, in the space of five baffling seconds, it all unravels. A trained biologist, on a dangerous alien world, takes one look at a clearly hostile, hissing space cobra and decides it’s a good idea to pet it. Just like that, the spell is broken. Logic is gone, tension is gone, and all that’s left is the sad realization that the script was rushed or the writers weren’t fully in it.

    So let’s take a closer look at this biologist’s so-called character arc and break down how those events should have unfolded—if the writers had been more careful about preserving logic and scientific credibility.

    Trained biologist – An already complete character arc

    When we’re introduced to a trained biologist—or any trained professional, really—in a story like this, we expect that their character is already formed. They’ve gone through the grind, completed their education, faced challenges, and emerged on the other side with a level of mastery. That kind of background implies not just skill and confidence, but something even more important in a high-stakes, unfamiliar environment: intuition. They should recognize danger, assess unknown variables, and respond like someone who’s been in the field before—and it shouldn’t matter that they’re in a new environment.

    Fix #1 – The trainee

    So for this story to work, it should have been made explicitly clear—more than once—that this guy isn’t a seasoned expert, but rather a trainee, maybe even the junior member of a larger biology team. Someone who’s smart, yes, but still green. Someone who’s here to learn, not lead. That would at least justify some hesitation, some curiosity overpowering caution. Without that context, his actions come off not as human error, but as a complete failure of storytelling.

    Fix #2 – The Motivation to Risk

    Alternatively, we could just give him a clear, believable motivation for sticking his hand out in the first place. Earlier in the film, the team is shown collecting DNA samples from the environment—rocks, air, remnants of alien organisms. So why not establish that the biologist, of all people, is especially eager to collect data from a live specimen? If the creature appears passive or non-aggressive at first, his curiosity could override his caution—not because he’s stupid, but because he’s driven by scientific ambition. It’s still a risky move, but now it’s in character, and it adds tension instead of killing it.

    “It’s a scientific expedition — No weapons.”

    Even before the team sets foot on that alien world, the film drops a glaring red flag: somehow, a trillion-dollar spaceship is staffed by a ragtag group of naive, disorganized rookies who seem to have no clear protocols to follow. Case in point: Elizabeth Shaw, a medical doctor, somehow manages to overpower a trained soldier and orders him to lose the weapons.

    Now, I have to admit, part of me wanted to cheer. After all, I didn’t want another “shoot first, ask questions later, when it’s dead” sci-fi action flick full of needless firefights. So, for a moment, I gave the film a pass on this rather unorthodox command. But looking back, it only highlights how inconsistent the writing is: how does a doctor have the authority—and the muscle—to disarm a soldier on a potentially hostile alien planet? And what kind of “scientific expedition” sends people into the unknown without backup firepower or clear contingency plans?

    But beyond inconsistent writing, there was one specific story element I really want to highlight:

    The Search for Our Creator trope

    How believable is it that anyone on this crew would be willing to risk everything to search for our creators on a distant, alien planet—yet none of them show even a hint of spiritual belief or reverence? It’s as if not a single person on board is a churchgoer or someone who embraces the idea that humanity was created by a higher intelligence—what many would call God, often associated with creative power of love. Sure, a few characters casually mention Darwinian evolution, but where’s the religious perspective? Where’s the crew member who wrestles with faith, or represents the hope and fear that come with confronting the divine?

    Honestly, this felt like a huge missed opportunity. Splitting the crew into ideological camps—believers versus skeptics—could have added real tension and depth, turning the mission into a profound clash of worldviews, rather than just a sci-fi treasure hunt. Instead, the story skims over this rich thematic soil, leaving it oddly flat.

    But despite all its shortcomings—the baffling decisions, the missed thematic opportunities, and the uneven writing—Prometheus is still a fun movie to watch. But storywise, I just can’t rate it very high. For me, it lands at a 3 out of 10.

    Thank you for reading.

    Ira

  • Tomorrowland (2015) – The Upside-Down Promised Land Trope

    Tomorrowland is a prime example of a film shaped by the economic pressures of modern moviemaking—where scripts often suffer while visuals are dialed up to compensate. It’s the kind of movie that leaves you wondering, “What did I just witness?” Something feels undeniably off, but it’s hard to pin down exactly what. With its many plot holes, it creates a cognitive dissonance that—if you’re lucky—might fade over time. But if you’re not, it’ll quietly linger in the back of your mind, waiting for the moment you finally stop and try to make sense of it all.

    So, let’s try to make sense of it all. But first, let’s blow off some steam and point out some of the most ridiculous plot holes.

    Plot holes galore

    The Time-Stopping Gun. Athena whips out this amazing gadget in the comic shop—freezes time, saves the day, total showstopper. But then it gets destroyed and… apparently that was the only one in the universe? No backup, no mention, not even a nostalgic callback later, when things got rough.

    The rude Kick from the Car. Athena quite literally ejects Casey at Frank’s house and peels off without so much as a “good luck.” Why? Robot retaliation was not just likely—it was expected. Not only does it make zero sense, it was the perfect moment to flex her android superpowers or, I don’t know, maybe whip out that time-stopping or similar tech again?

    The Sercret Service worthy danger. What danger do Athena and Casey actually pose to Tomorrowland anyway? Are the Secret Service robots really expecting them to somehow invade and ruin the place with their ideology or so-called “specialness”?

    The Teleport with a rest stop. They literally already have a working teleportation machine… but somehow, it can’t get them to Tomorrowland. How hard would it have been to calibrate it to function like the dimension-shifting rocket module? Because no—the only option we had was to detour through a retro rocket under the Eiffel Tower.

    The 25-Year-Old Coke in the Fridge. So let me get this straight—no one’s checked whether the teleport receiver at the Eiffel Tower still works for at least 25 years, but when they got there Frank was 100% sure there’s still Coke chilling in the fridge?

    The Eiffel Tower rocket. Let me just ask you this—if the whole world was spiraling into fear about the apocalypse, wouldn’t global news of this awesome secret rocket launching from under the Eiffel Tower at least slightly shift the global conversation towards hope? Half of the world would probably react like: “It’s the governments, trying to save us.”

    Et cetera. Those head-scratchers are practically everywhere, too much of them to nitpick. So let’s rather shift gears and delve into the story’s core subject—the classic “promised land” trope, and point out why the way they handled it just doesn’t work.

    The Promised Land trope

    For the “promised land” trope to work on a spiritual or mythic level, it needs one crucial element: the promised land must be presented as a better, more elevated version of the protagonist’s current reality—something aspirational, a vision of growth or transcendence. It’s not just a place, but a state of becoming.

    In Tomorrowland, however, that dynamic gets turned upside-down. Instead of embarking on a journey of inner transformation, Casey’s arc feels more like an escape. The narrative frames Tomorrowland as a shining beacon of hope, yet the world she leaves behind—and her own internal beliefs about its future—aren’t truly reconciled. It doesn’t feel like she outgrows her doubt; it feels like she simply flees from it.

    So rather than a symbolic ascent into a higher plane, her arrival in Tomorrowland reads more like running away from the uncomfortable truths she still secretly believes. That lack of inner shift weakens the spiritual power of the trope. The promised land becomes a meaningless physical relocation rather than a personal revelation.

    So, how would we polish the outline?

    Alternative Tomorrowland Outline

    In a more emotionally grounded version of Tomorrowland, Casey should still be drawn toward the mysterious city of Tomorrowland. Her journey, full of promise and curiosity, leads her to a seemingly perfect, fully functioning utopia—not one already in decay. However, as she spends more time there, she begins to sense something isn’t right. The gleaming architecture and high-minded ideals don’t align with the emptiness she feels inside. Slowly, she realizes that Tomorrowland isn’t the answer she was looking for—it’s a distraction, an escape.

    The heart of the story should be about Casey confronting why she was so eager to believe in dystopian prophecies in the first place. Through the course of the film, she comes to understand that her pessimism is rooted in personal pain—perhaps from a falling out with her family or a sense of failure and alienation in the real world. Tomorrowland, then, becomes a metaphor for avoidance: a place she hoped would fix everything, only to learn that healing has to come from within.

    In the end, Casey chooses to return home—not because she’s given up on the future, but because she’s found the courage to face herself. Through reconciliation with her family and a renewed sense of hope, she begins to change—not just inwardly, but in how she sees the world. And through her eyes, we gradually catch glimpses of a brighter future starting to take shape.

    Why not make Athena a hybrid?

    Nothing leaves a worse taste in our mouths than a love that just can’t be. So why not make Athena a hybrid—part human, part machine? That one change alone would add a layer of tragic beauty to her relationship with Frank.

    The story with Frank should then go like this:

    Frank found his place in Tomorrowland as a child—brilliant, curious, and full of promise. But over time, he grew disillusioned and was eventually ejected—not for his cynicism, but because of a deeper, unspoken heartbreak. His falling out with Athena—a robot, yes, but one he had come to love—left scars on them both. She saw in his eyes the disappointment, the painful realization that she wasn’t human, and mistook it for hatred. Believing he no longer cared for her, she quietly influenced others to have him removed based on some lies. Frank, in turn, believed Athena and the rest had turned against him.

    Now, years later, Frank is married and seemingly settled, but the grumpiness remains—a sign that part of him is still unresolved. With Casey’s arrival and her infectious optimism, something in him begins to thaw. Together, they find a way back to Tomorrowland—Casey seemingly to escape the world, Frank to confront the past. Because of the fallout, they just might find—like the original idea—Tomorrowland in shambles. Kicking out Frank led to a chain reaction and now they have to reconcile first, for the things to settle back in place.

    And then, In the place he once called home, Frank finally opens up. He confesses to Athena that he did like her—that he always had. She, in turn, reassures him that despite her programming, her feelings for him were real. But how the hell would a robot know how to love? Athena explains that she’s not just a machine—she’s a hybrid, with fully human-functional systems, programmed to work with biology and evolve emotionally. She may have been built, but her heart grew on its own. In that moment, Frank doesn’t just find redemption. He finds peace.

    Something like that for example. Thank you for reading!

    Ira