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  • 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

  • Coherence (2013) – Yeah, But the Real Question Is: Is the Story Coherent?

    Coherence (2013) is one of those rare low-budget sci-fi films that punches way above its weight. It’s always intriguing to see a movie tackle supernatural topics like quantum superposition, and this one dives right in—crashing the party like it owns the place. For such a small production, the filmmakers did a fantastic job with tension, atmosphere, and mystery. Some commenters gripe that the acting feels off, but hey—how are you supposed to act naturally when you’ve never experienced anything like this, and probably never will?

    But we’re here to talk about the story.

    The era of results-oriented moviemaking

    As we’ve mentioned more than once, we live in an era of results-oriented moviemaking—where economic, creative, and deadline pressures are everywhere. And the first thing that usually suffers is the script. Good writing needs time, and more importantly, mental space for inspiration and refinement. This is especially true for stories like this, where the phenomenon being explored—like quantum superposition—is barely understood, even in scientific circles.

    Also, in today’s hyper-competitive market, studios often feel pressured to cram as many high-concept ideas into a script as possible—trying to appear smarter, edgier, or more thought-provoking than the competition. But more often than not, this backfires, leaving audiences confused rather than impressed. Instead of depth, you get a tangled mess of half-baked concepts that don’t have room to breathe or make sense. That’s not to say it isn’t fun to occasionally try and untangle even the hardest knot afterwards.

    So, how coherent is Coherence?

    Honestly, the script feels as solid as it needs to be, with no noticeable plot holes—and that might just be the benefit of not being a big-budget movie. The quantum themes are handled in a way that aligns well with what we currently understand about the subject, without going overboard or getting lost in pseudo-science. For me, the writing team’s skill became clear right from the opening dinner party—it was one of the most natural and believable group dynamics I’ve seen on screen. The dialogue, full of cross talk and seemingly unimportant anecdotes, felt incredibly authentic. That grounded, natural atmosphere made the supernatural elements that followed feel all the more jarring and effective.

    All in all, Coherence was genuinely enjoyable to watch, and I’d absolutely recommend it—especially if you’re into mind-bending stories with a grounded execution. Now, let’s point out the Major Arcana archetype that played the biggest part in the story, and to which the movie—knowingly or unknowingly—paid significant homage.

    The High Priestess – The Unknown

    In the tarot, the High Priestess sits between two towers—one of truth and one of illusion. One might argue that these towers are quantumly superimposed: coexisting in potential. They live side by side in the spirit, in the realm of the future—waiting for consciousness to collapse them into one reality or the other.

    The tower on her left, sometimes overlooked, represents illusionary inspiration: the comfortable lies, half-truths, and unknowns we surround ourselves with. Before the onset of free will, there were no towers—only truth. But with choice came ambiguity, and with ambiguity, illusion. In Coherence, the illusion isn’t just visual or situational—it’s existential. The characters don’t just confront alternate realities; they confront the unsettling possibility that they don’t know themselves at all. The High Priestess energy hovers over the entire film, challenging both characters and viewers to question what’s real, what’s not, and whether finding out is even desirable.

    Ira

  • The House (2017) – The Perfect Archetypal Script!

    The House (2017) is a suburban crime-comedy starring Will Ferrell and Amy Poehler, built on a interesting premise: two desperate parents turn “their” basement into an illegal casino to pay for their daughter’s college tuition. Despite that promising concept, the finished film received mixed reviews, with critics divided over whether it delivered on its comedic promise and if wagering a substantial bet on rather chaotic scenes paid off.

    I say, they’re just a bunch of jackasses who don’t appreciate a good script, right? The House actually had all the essential ingredients: the mundane setup, the darkness, the motivation, the rising tension, the envelope-pushing chaos, the fallout, the attempt to set things right, and the final push toward redemption. In other words, whether intentionally or not, it basically hit all the beats of the Major Arcana, our favourite storytelling model.

    So lets point them out then.

    Major arcana archetypes in The House

    The magician, the will and the manifestor ✅

    As a family, they successfully manifest their daughter’s college acceptance—and have the will to see it through.

    The devil ✅

    Bob, the town council member, denies the scholarship

    Justice – Free will to make decision ✅

    Scott and Kate (the parents) are forced to face the consequences and make a choice—how to come up with the tuition money, and what they’re willing to risk.

    The high priestess – The inspiration for the unknown ✅

    Scott and Kate are guided by their daughter’s yet untapped potential—quietly motivating their every reckless move.

    The Hermit – The isolation ✅

    After the scholarship is denied, Scott and Kate are left to navigate the problem alone—cut off, with no support in sight.

    The lightning – The idea ✅

    In a symbolically flashy Vegas setting with Frank, the wild idea strikes—run an illegal casino to solve it all.

    The empress – The infatuation ✅

    The group becomes enamored with their new venture—seduced by the thrill, blind to the consequences.

    The wheel of fortune – The ups and downs ✅

    Running an illegal casino in a suburban basement brings chaos—and the trio rides every high and low that comes with it.

    The star – The hope ✅

    With every small success growing into a bigger one, so does their hope of eventually getting their daughter into college.

    The emperor – The controller ✅ The Strength ✅

    Faced with spiraling chaos, they clamp down hard—asserting dominance, even if it means slicing off a cheater’s finger to send a message.

    The moon – The illusion ✅

    They don’t create real wealth—only the illusion of it, wrapped in flashing lights and false confidence.

    The hanged man – The balancing out ✅

    Bob, the town council member, confiscates their money—suspending their momentum and tipping the scales back.

    The hierophant – The sincerity ✅ The Sun – Heart to heart ✅

    After all the chaos—and some admittedly offputting bloodshed—Scott and Kate share a genuine moment with their daughter, and even Frank finds a bit of truth with his wife.

    The death – The apology ✅ The judgement – resurrection ✅

    Every apology is a small death of the ego—and Scott and Kate face theirs as they finally apologize to their daughter. After that, they’re reborn into their higher selves—which shows the very next moment.

    Meanwhile, Frank’s house burns down, symbolizing the death of his old self, while also sparking a small resurrection in his relationship with his wife.

    The world – The universe ✅

    Just when all seems lost, the universe steps in—Officer Chandler arrives and sides with them.

    The Two paths (lovers) – Determination ✅

    Together, they make their choice—to stand united and fight back against Bob.

    The chariot – The execution, the purpose ✅

    Fueled by determination, they charge ahead and carry out their revenge swiftly and with purpose.

    The temperance ✅

    After successfully dropping their daughter off at college, Scott and Kate finally slow down to savor the fruits of their wild adventure —the will, the hope, the strength, and the determination. The double parker didn’t even know what hit him.

    So, beneath the surface of this loud, messy comedy lies a surprisingly structured narrative that hits every major arcana beat. All the archetypes—The Magician, The Devil, The Emperor, The Star, and the rest—are practically embodied in The House’s chaotic journey. Maybe critics missed the bigger picture. This movie isn’t just a wild ride of absurdity—it’s a cleverly disguised tarot spread, and that’s why I think it’s way underrated.

    The True Story Score: 9/10, because of the rather hectic execution in some parts.

    Ira

  • Megalopolis (2024) – The Caesar Salad of a Plot

    I totally understand why Francis Ford Coppola would spend $120 million of his own money on a passion project like Megalopolis. The idea of transforming New York into a New Rome is packed with creative potential, and the film certainly doesn’t disappoint in its worldbuilding. It features striking characters, realtively deep conversations, and believable political tension that pays homage to ancient Rome. But when it comes to storytelling, the film feels scattered and unfocused.

    Ok, we have a beautiful new world—but no real story. So instead of creating a story around a lead character, the Coppola seems to have picked a handful of familiar tropes, mixed them together, and built some sort of a narrative around those. The result feels like a Caesar salad of the cheapest kind—some parts are indeed juicy and flavorful, but much of it ends up being tossed out just to get through it.

    Here’s a quick breakdown of the tropes that, in my opinion, worked — and those that didn’t and then we’ll discuss why.

    ✅ Worked well:

    • Forbidden love
    • Love triangle
    • Power struggle / hunger for money

    ❌ Fell flat:

    • Hero with supernatural powers from the get-go
    • “The special one” or the Messiah figure
    • The resurrection

    An especially unrelatable protagonist

    Cesar is the quintessential “special one” — not only does he have the extraordinary ability to stop time (for some reason that Coppola was fascinated about but adds nothing to the story), but he also cheats death itself, ultimately surviving a gunshot to the face without a scar. When was the last time we saw a character so powerful and invincible from the very start?

    He’s portrayed almost as a messiah figure, a visionary savior meant to reshape the world, but this mythic status ultimately makes him feel less like a real person and more like an untouchable symbol — powerful, but frustratingly unrelatable for anyone in the audience.

    The questionable love

    Julia’s love for Cesar doesn’t begin as a genuine connection but rather as admiration for his extraordinary powers, something she openly expresses. She seems captivated more by the idea of Cesar as a messianic figure—the “special one” who holds the fate of the world in his hands—than by the man himself. This isn’t true love, yet the film never addresses this and portrays her feelings as sincere, which makes it all especially confusing.

    The double disconnect

    I would call this a double disconnect. Even if I could somehow relate to Cesar—which I cannot—there’s an additional hurdle: the love he receives from Julia feels fake and unearned. This second emotional gap makes it even harder for us in the audience to invest in his journey, as the relationship, which should humanize him, instead reinforces his distance and untouchability.

    Instead of feeling happy for the two and enjoying the moment, the audience is left wondering: Do I also have to bend time and cheat death to earn this kind of beautiful love? Or maybe, how many guys like that even exist for me out there?

    What’s the answer to that?

    Well? Weeeellll?

    The non-symbolic ressurection

    In most stories, resurrection is symbolic—a transformative moment where the hero sheds their ego and steps into a greater version of themselves. It’s about growth, humility, and confronting one’s inner limitations. But in Megalopolis, Cesar’s resurrection skips the introspection. It doesn’t mark a shift toward a higher self—it simply reaffirms that he is the chosen one, the exceptional being above all others.

    These are the storytelling elements I thought were worth pointing out. The rest of the movie, like I said, is a salad to nitpick. More precisely—an unsalvageable salad with no redemption arc though I’m never a disbeliever. It’s just that I didn’t even order a salad — I came for popcorn and a soda.

    Ira

  • Kingsman: The Secret Service (2014) — Clever, But a Half-Assed, Superficial Character Arc

    Kingsman: The Secret Service (2014) kicks off like a slick lovechild of Men in Black and James Bond—with clever writing, sharp pacing, and just enough attitude to make it stand out. It blends the secret-agent cool of classic spy thrillers with modern disdain, flashy action, and cheeky charm. The setup promises a fresh twist on the genre: a street kid entering a world of tailored suits and lethal manners. And for a while, it all clicks—right up until the story seems to lose patience with its own potential.

    Eggsy’s character development starts off promising:

    • Hero has flaws ✅
    • Hero gets motivated ✅
    • Hero goes through trials ✅

    But somewhere along the way—maybe because Valentine, our villain with a tech empire and zero patience, had itchy trigger fingers—the rest of his arc gets rushed, skipping over some crucial beats:

    • Hero never repents, apologizes, or undergoes real transformation ❌
    • Hero never confronts or addresses his flaws ❌
    • Hero never truly fails at anything and needs to recalculate (unless you count refusing to shoot the dog) ❌
    • No “dark night of the soul” or other pondering❌

    And because of that, the rest of his development feels rather superficial. This is essentially how it unfolds—though whether it’s justified enough to even call it development, I’ll leave for you to decide:

    1. Before visiting the tailor, Harry shares a quote with Eggsy:

    “There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow man; true nobility is being superior to your former self.”
    — Ernest Hemingway

    It’s a clear nod to the idea of transformation—the death of one’s old, ego-driven self. But as noted, Eggsy never truly goes through that transformation on screen.

    1. Soon after, he gets the iconic suit—symbolically stepping into the Kingsman role.
    2. He witnesses Harry’s death, which maybe suggests a potential spark of determination to step up and take his place.
    3. He later outsmarts Arthur by spotting the scar behind his ear and cleverly switching the glasses of brandy.

    And just like that, the film basically presents Eggsy as having reached his mastery. We’re told he’s ready when Valentine’s plan escalates and the Kingsmen need him.

    For a global intelligence agency, Kingsman seems remarkably short-staffed at the climax. The absence of other agents when the stakes are that high felt less like plot and more like an insult to the audience’s intelligence.

    Luckily for them, they were in a movie where Eggsy is the star—so they gambled on his plot armor and sent him in.

    And that was that.

    Ira

  • The Villain’s Wet Dream — A Bioweapon That Wipes Us All Out

    It’s a trope as old as the spy thriller: the villain develops a terrifying bioweapon designed to wipe out half—or all—of humanity. But let’s be real: this idea is less a plausible threat and more a villain’s fantasy. In reality, the creation and use of such a weapon is riddled with impossible challenges, paralyzing fears, and metaphysical complications that movies rarely explore.

    1. Too Dumb to Build It

    First off, creating a bioweapon capable of mass destruction isn’t just evil—it’s insanely complex. Most villains, and their minions, lack the scientific brains and resources to invent such a weapon. More often than not, they’re stealing or hijacking something that already exists. This isn’t just a storytelling shortcut; it’s a reflection of reality. Crafting deadly pathogens takes cutting-edge labs, top-tier experts, and years of work—not exactly the stuff of quick villainous plots.

    2. Biology Is Neutral — It’s the Spirit That Powers It

    But even beyond science, there’s a deeper truth, often overlooked outside spiritual circles: biology itself is neutral. A virus, bacteria, or toxin is just matter—neither good nor evil. What gives it destructive power is the energy, intent, or spirit behind it. Without that metaphysical force animating it, a bioweapon is just a lifeless tool. This spiritual perspective challenges the usual “cold, calculated” villain narrative and suggests that true menace comes from the villain’s inner darkness, not their lab equipment.

    3. The Metaphysical Size of the Villain

    Which brings us to the heart of the matter: how big is the villain metaphysically? The real threat isn’t the weapon itself, but the magnitude of the villain’s dark energy and willpower. The more powerful their spirit—the more intense their ego and destructive intent—the more dangerous they truly are. A bioweapon is just an extension of that force, not the source.

    4. Fear of Self-Destruction

    Finally, even if a villain somehow managed to create such a devastating bioweapon, would they actually use it? Negativity, in all its forms, is notoriously afraid of dying or losing control. Using a weapon that wipes out half the world risks triggering uncontrollable chaos—and potentially the villain’s own end. This fear of self-destruction restrains many villains, adding a layer of complexity missing in most movies, where the villain just presses the big red button without hesitation.

    In sum, the doomsday bioweapon is less a credible threat and more a villain’s fantasy—an exciting but fundamentally flawed plot device. Understanding these layers can help storytellers create more believable antagonists and richer narratives, while reminding audiences to take these high-stakes threats with a grain of salt.

    Ira