Arcaneya

Blog

  • Immaculate (2024): Fixing the Central Contradiction And Adding True Horror

    Immaculate (2024): Fixing the Central Contradiction And Adding True Horror

    Immaculate (2024) is a proper horror film. From its opening scenes in the secluded convent to its oppressive atmosphere and Sydney Sweeney’s anchored performance, the movie delivers genuine tension, body horror, and a sense of dread rarely seen in contemporary horror. For much of the runtime, it feels like a masterclass in suspense. Yet, despite these strengths, the film falters in ways that prevent it from reaching its full terrifying potential.

    The Contradiction at the Heart of the Story

    At the center of the film lies a glaring contradiction: Cecilia is impregnated using DNA allegedly taken from the nail Christ was nailed to the cross. On one hand, the story leans into religious horror, framing her pregnancy as a modern miracle; on the other, it turns into a twisted genetic experiment. The problem is obvious—if the goal was merely to create a child carrying Christ’s DNA, there was no need to convince everyone of an immaculate conception. Conversely, if the film wanted to emphasize a miracle, introducing DNA experiments is not needed.

    Straightening the Story

    The simplest solution to this contradiction is to remove the nail DNA storyline altogether. The horror would become more coherent, grounded, and human: the convent doesn’t need mystical DNA; its evil can exist in the manipulation and violation of its victims alone.

    A More Sinister Plot

    Once the supernatural gimmick is discarded, the story can embrace a darker and far more disturbing truth: Father Sal himself as the source. Imagine a plot where he impregnates women in their sleep, weaponizing faith and secrecy to achieve his twisted ends. This approach heightens the horror on multiple levels. The fear is both physical and psychological—the audience realizes that the true danger comes from someone who wields spiritual authority, and that authority is being perverted into a tool of control. It makes the villain frighteningly human, consistent, and psychotic, a man whose obsession with power and worship drives him to treat both women and faith as instruments for his own ends.

    The Pitfall of Over-Exposition

    Another weakness in the film is the mid-movie villain exposition. This scene undermines tension, renders Cecilia passive, and subtly shortchanges the audience, implying that viewers cannot connect the dots on their own. Horror thrives on what is left unsaid; ambiguity forces the audience to imagine, to infer, and to feel the creeping dread themselves. A stronger approach would have been to let Cecilia gradually uncover the truth—finding the tools for sedation and impregnation, piecing together clues, and ultimately realizing that Sal is behind it. By omitting full explanations, the horror becomes more immersive, sinister, and memorable.

    Elevating the Antagonist

    These changes would elevate Father Sal to an epic level of horror. He becomes a psycho whose obsession with power and worship is so extreme that he attempts to turn his offspring into a messiah, manipulating faith, trust, and innocence to satisfy his ego. To heighten the discomfort, he should not be conventionally attractive; the story works best if his presence is unsettling, someone utterly unfit for the women he targets, reinforcing the grotesque imbalance of desire and authority. This version would create a villain who is terrifying, human, and utterly believable—a man whose cruelty is amplified by the veneer of religious sanctity.

    Immaculate already succeeds in many areas, but stripping away the pseudo-scientific gimmick, embracing a human source of horror, and letting dread unfold gradually would transform the story from compelling to unforgettable. It would make the villain not just a character, but an emblem of obsession, control, and the dark extremes of psychotic ambition.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Black Adam (2022): Apologising to the Antihero? Not in This Reworked Outline

    Black Adam arrived with strong momentum. The opening half of the movie had tension, clarity, and spectacle: an ancient antihero awakened, a clash with the Justice Society, and a city caught between freedom and destruction. It worked because the story had rules. Adam was immensely powerful, yet vulnerable to Eternium. He was brutal, yet bound by his own sense of justice. For a while, it felt like the movie had its footing.

    But somewhere in the second half, the logic started to unravel. Adam simply decided to give up his powers, surrendered to the Justice Society, and allowed himself to be locked away. What should have been a dramatic turning point instead felt like a stalling tactic. To make matters worse, the Justice Society — the supposed voice of order and morality — ended up apologizing to Adam later, undercutting their role as the moral backbone of the film.

    It is true, that Adam is different. In traditional storytelling, heroes go through a dark night of the soul. They’re brought low, they repent, and then they rise above their flaws. But Adam is not a traditional hero. He’s an antihero — and in that archetype, the crucial step of apology is deliberately skipped. Antiheroes grow through more or less forceful actions, not through repentance. They are defined by their refusal to bend to the world’s rules. So why would heros then bow to them?

    A Different Way Forward

    Taking this into account, the second half of Black Adam could have unfolded with more bite and more tension. In the beginning, the film established that Adam was vulnerable to Eternium — a weakness that was never used again. In a reimagined outline, Eternium would return as the Justice Society’s trump card, the one way they could bring Adam down.

    The clash would escalate when Adam kills a civilian by accident, or through negligence. Not a faceless extra, but someone we’ve come to know and care about — maybe a friendly figure from Kahndaq who reminded Adam of what he once lost. The moment might even happen in the heat of the battle with Sabbac, where Adam’s destructive methods blur the line between justice and collateral damage.

    This would be the Justice Society’s breaking point. They finally lose their composure and use Eternium to pin Adam down. For once, he is not surrendering of his own will — he’s being forced into a cage. And here comes the crucial twist: the Society tries to force an apology out of him. Hawkman demands it. Doctor Fate attempts to reason with him. Adrianna pleads with compassion. But Adam never apologizes. It’s simply not who he is.

    When Sabbac’s rise threatens them all, the Justice Society realize they have no choice. They need Adam. With no apology in hand, they must settle for releasing him and learning to fight alongside someone they cannot tame. This uneasy truce would carry the tension through the entire third act, so that every moment of their alliance feels unstable, dangerous, and necessary.

    An Antihero’s Apology Without Words

    And while Adam never says “sorry,” he would still show growth in his own way. Near the end, he could repeat one of his casual gestures from earlier in the film — throwing a civilian out of harm’s way with reckless force. But this time, he catches him. Literally. He swoops back, retrieves the civilian, and sets them down safely before resuming the fight. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to an apology, and it says more than words could. Plus, it lets the film close on a slightly humorous beat — Adam doesn’t change who he is, but he learns to temper his destruction just enough to protect the people he claims to fight for.

    Conclusion

    By reworking the second half in this way, the story would hold its tension all the way through. Adam would never be declawed by a hollow surrender, the Justice Society would retain their spine, and the uneasy alliance at the end would feel earned instead of awkward. Most importantly, the antihero’s arc would stay true to its nature — no cheap apologies, only actions that prove he’s capable of growth without losing his edge. That’s the version of Black Adam that could have turned its messy second half into something bold, memorable, and fitting for the antihero it set out to portray.

    Thank you!

    Ira

  • Black Adam (2022): The Crown That Confused the Story

    Black Adam began with promise. The first half of the film carried weight—an antihero awakening after centuries, clashing with the Justice Society, and a city torn between hope and destruction. But somewhere past the midpoint, the story lost its footing. Plot threads tangled, character arcs diffused, and one of the most glaring examples of lost logic was the treatment of the mystical crown of Sabbac.

    The Crown Logic That Didn’t Add Up

    The crown is introduced with an ominous scripture: “Death is the only way to life.” A neat bit of foreshadowing—except the way the film handled it felt like narrative gymnastics. Ishmael, the villain, kidnaps young Amon and taunts Black Adam with the situation, believing Adam will strike him down. Ishmael’s plan? To be killed by Adam while wearing the crown, fulfilling the prophecy and returning as Sabbac.

    But here’s the problem: how would Ishmael know Adam would play along? Why wouldn’t he stage his own death instead of relying on his enemy to do it? It’s a ludicrously fragile plan, hinging on unpredictable choices. And when it does play out, the logic falters even more—Adam kills Ishmael, who resurrects from some distant water pit, while the crown back on the Justice Society’s ship conveniently disintegrates. The geography and mechanics of it all leave the audience scratching their heads.

    Dodging the Cliché, But Losing Clarity

    It’s clear what the writers were trying to do. They didn’t want the tired trope of “villain puts on the MacGuffin and turns into the big bad.” That’s been done in superhero films for decades. But in trying to dodge the cliché, they tied themselves in knots. Instead of clarity and inevitability, the crown subplot became contrived and confusing.

    A Cleaner Alternative: The Crown as a Trap

    What if the crown wasn’t an instant power-up but a deadly trial? A cursed object that kills anyone who dares wear it. That’s why it’s guarded so fiercely—not because it’s a simple key, but because it’s a death sentence. The wearer is reduced to ash. Only then, if the underworld deems the sacrifice worthy, does the person remanifest as Sabbac.

    Imagine how much stronger this would play in the film. Ishmael dons the crown, confident in his destiny. He’s incinerated before everyone’s eyes—a shocking, seemingly final defeat. The Justice Society brings the crown back to their ship and puts it into its showcase, believing the threat ended. But then, in their very midst, Ishmael rematerializes as Sabbac beneath the crown’s resting place, catching them off guard. The resurrection feels immediate, tied to the crown, and organically escalates the tension.

    Why This Fix Works Better

    This alternative keeps the prophecy intact, avoids a hostage contrivance, and doesn’t require Sabbac to emerge from a remote, disconnected location. Instead of the villain’s return feeling like a clumsy afterthought, it becomes the natural consequence of his ambition and the crown’s curse. The Justice Society is implicated too—their decision to “safely” put the crown away is exactly what allows Sabbac to rise.

    Conclusion

    The crown subplot is a small part of Black Adam, but it’s emblematic of where the film stumbled. The first half set up intriguing conflicts, only for the second half to spiral into contrivances and confused logic. By reframing the crown as a deadly trial rather than a vague prophecy puzzle, the story would have avoided backflips, delivered a cleaner resurrection for Sabbac, and tied the climax more closely to the main characters. Sometimes leaning into a trope with a twist is better than dodging it with convolution.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Inside Out 2 (2024): Awesome Like First Until the Flat Ending

    Pixar’s Inside Out 2 is a worthy successor to its brilliant predecessor. It expands Riley’s inner world with fresh emotions like Anxiety, Envy, and Embarrassment, and once again balances humor, heart, and psychology with an ease few studios can match. For much of its runtime, the film sparkles — insightful, funny, and often deeply moving. But when it reaches its conclusion, the storytelling falters. Instead of delivering an open ending that leaves the audience holding their breath, it pours a pitcher of cool water over the tension.

    The Flat Ending

    The setup is perfect: Riley waits for news about whether she’ll make the hockey team. This is the kind of small-yet-huge moment adolescence is built on — the stakes feel enormous, even if the world at large won’t notice. Yet instead of letting the suspense land, the film undermines itself. Joy reassures Anxiety with a “you can rest now” moment, as if to appease the audience that Riley will be fine regardless. The fellow hockey players also soften the scene with a clumsy line: “If you don’t make it this year, there’s always next year.” That may have been intended as comfort, but it doesn’t ring true to teenage voices, nor does it heighten the stakes. It dilutes them.

    The Charged Alternative

    Imagine a different approach. Riley opens her email, the entire control room goes tense. Every emotion is at the ready behind the switchboard.

    • Joy is hopeful, leaning forward.
    • Sadness is steady, prepared to help Riley accept the outcome.
    • Anxiety is taut but not dismissed — her vigilance has value here.
    • Fear hides under the console, bracing for disaster.
    • Embarrassment shifts uncomfortably, dreading either outcome.

    No speeches. No reassurances. Just a lineup of emotions in their raw readiness, mirroring the weight of Riley’s moment. We cut back to Riley’s face as she reacts — but the list itself remains unseen. The screen fades.

    Why It Matters

    That alternative doesn’t change the ambiguity — we still never find out if Riley made the team — but it transforms it from a flat anticlimax into an electric moment. Instead of being told “it doesn’t matter,” we would feel the truth: Riley’s life is no longer about simple wins or losses. It’s about holding space for uncertainty, for joy and fear and sadness all at once. And that’s what makes Inside Out so brilliant when it’s firing on all cylinders.

    Ambiguity works best not when it soothes us, but when it leaves us buzzing with possibility.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Moana 2 (2024): Robbed of Free-Will Once More. Let’s Fix That Once More

    Disney’s Moana 2 continues the oceanic journey with stunning visuals, lush animation, and songs that carry the same celebratory rhythm of Polynesian culture. The surface shines, but once more the story falters at its core. Just as the first film stripped Moana of her agency by having the ocean itself “choose” her as the special one, this sequel falls into the same trap by anchoring her journey to an ancestral vision that dictates her mission. The effect is the same: Moana becomes the instrument of forces beyond her, rather than an individual with her own choices, doubts, and courage.

    A More Natural Beginning Through Human Choice

    Instead of another imposed vision, the sequel could begin with something both smaller and more profound: Moana’s parents. Around the fire, her father and mother recall an ancient myth whispered across generations, a story of an island said to unite the tribes. Their ancestors once sought this place but failed, and the tale has remained a haunting fragment rather than a promise. In their conversation, they quietly arrive at a painful truth: if anyone could succeed, it might be their daughter—because she has not only proven herself a wayfinder, but she has a bond with the sea that few can explain.

    It is a fragile decision. By speaking of this myth to Moana, they are risking their eldest daughter’s life once more. Yet unlike the visions of the first film, this choice restores the essential weight: they present Moana with the possibility, and she must decide whether to take the burden upon herself. Moana accepts, not because she is commanded, but because she chooses.

    Keeping the Island Shrouded in Ambiguity

    The myth itself must be treated with uncertainty, not as fact. The parents do not claim that the island of Motufetu exists, nor that it would automatically unite the tribes. All they know is that ancient wayfinders charted something beneath a cluster of stars, a place their maps left incomplete. That fragment, and that fragment alone, is enough to stir Moana’s imagination and sense of responsibility.

    This ambiguity gives the quest depth. The stakes are no longer a checklist—find the island, unite the people—but an unfolding mystery. The characters and the audience must wrestle with doubt: is there even an island at all? And if so, what meaning could it truly hold?

    Maui’s Place in the Mystery

    In the original, Maui flatly explains that the island has sunk, which undercuts the narrative tension. In a reimagining, his knowledge would be less definitive. He would recall that sailors once spoke of a place hidden in an eternal mist or storm, where ships vanished without return. Perhaps it was a trap. Perhaps it was land. Perhaps it was nothing but the ocean playing tricks. This tone of skepticism keeps him in character while preserving the mystery.

    Only when Moana and Maui navigate under those very stars do they discover the truth themselves: there is nothing. No island. Just empty sea or swirling mist. In that moment, the legend shatters, and the characters must confront despair. The absence becomes a revelation—Motufetu did exist, but it is gone, swallowed by the ocean long ago.

    Why This Reimagining Matters

    This alternative outline restores Moana’s agency from the very first act, allowing her to make her own decision to set sail. It preserves the myth of Motufetu as something fragile, uncertain, and open to interpretation rather than a matter-of-fact quest object. And it makes the eventual payoff of a successful mission more meaningful, because it is not destiny that drives Moana, but her own choice, her own perseverance, and her own faith in the unknown.

    By embracing ambiguity instead of certainty and not only sing about it, Moana 2 could have turned its sequel journey into something more resonant: a story where the ancestors does not hand down orders, but where a young woman dares to follow a mystery—and in doing so, truly earns her triumph.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Moana (2016): A Masterpiece with a Small But Obvious Crack

    Disney’s Moana is one of those rare animated films that feels timeless the moment you watch it. From its lush animation and breathtaking water effects to its heartfelt songs and vibrant cultural grounding, it truly soars on almost every level. Moana herself stands as one of Disney’s strongest heroines—courageous, compassionate, and grounded in her people’s traditions while yearning to discover the wider world. The movie is endlessly watchable, emotionally rich, and bursting with life.

    Yet beneath all its strengths, there lies one structural weakness in the story that subtly undercuts its tension: the “chosen one” trope. It’s the one crack worth pointing out. One might find other reasons to critique the story, like the expositions, the MacGuffin (Heart of Te Fiti), and the ungrounded magic logic, however I think those were put together rather well. Well, maybe another day.

    The Problem of Being Chosen

    In the film’s original version, the ocean selects Moana when she is only a child, presenting her with the Heart of Te Fiti in a way that feels definitive and irreversible. From that point forward, Moana is marked as the destined savior of her people, having no free-will of her own. While inspiring on the surface, this removes much of the story’s suspense. If the ocean itself has chosen Moana, then her success feels preordained. Every trial she faces is softened by the audience’s knowledge that she cannot truly fail—the ocean is her safety net, guiding and even rescuing her when danger looms.

    The result is that Moana, a character who ought to be defined by her choices and resilience, becomes strangely passive at times. The ocean’s intervention robs her of some of her agency, and the story loses some of its edge.

    Reintroducing Ambiguity

    The solution lies in subtle changes at the very beginning of the film—changes that restore uncertainty, choice, and tension to Moana’s journey. What if, instead of the ocean directly choosing her, the possibility of her destiny were left ambiguous?

    In this reimagined version, when Moana is only two years old, she toddles down to the shore and finds her grandmother dancing with the ocean. Moana giggles and joins in, imitating her grandmother’s playful movements. But then something unexpected happens: the ocean responds to Moana more noticeably than it ever did to Grandma. The waves shimmer, curl, and dance back at her. Grandma is delighted but also intrigued, sensing something unusual yet not daring to call it fate.

    Later, when Moana is about six or seven, another moment deepens the mystery. She plays by the beach, chasing shells and laughing as the waves swell toward her. For a heartbeat, the water seems to beckon her in, but Moana grows nervous and runs back home as the tide recedes. When the waves pull back, Grandma notices something remarkable: the Heart of Te Fiti now lies in the sand, glimmering exactly where Moana had been playing moments before.

    Moana does not see it. She has already dashed away. Grandma, however, picks it up and studies it, a look of awe and wonder on her face. In that moment, she begins to suspect—but never truly knows—that Moana may be destined for something greater. She becomes the silent steward of the stone, holding on to it until Moana is ready to choose the path for herself.

    Agency Restored, Ending Enriched

    With these simple adjustments, the story regains its essential tension. Moana is not unshakably “chosen” from the start. The ocean doesn’t force destiny upon her—it merely responds. The ambiguity allows the audience to share Grandma’s uncertainty: is Moana truly the one, or is it all coincidence?

    This reframing transforms Moana’s journey into one of agency rather than inevitability. She is not carried along by fate; she earns her triumph. When she confronts Te Kā, restores the Heart, and sails home, the victory is all the more powerful because it was never guaranteed.

    Most importantly, the emotional payoff is enriched. By letting the ocean respond to Moana rather than the other way around, her actions, bravery, and growth carry the weight of the story. The conclusion—her celebrated return—feels fully earned, not just foretold.

    In this version, Moana remains the dazzling masterpiece we know, but with one key difference: its heroine shines even brighter because she wins not by destiny, but by choice.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Frozen II (2019): Reimagining the Most Natural Continuation of Events for the Sequel

    Frozen 2 was, by most accounts, a visual and musical triumph. The animation dazzled with sweeping landscapes and intricate details, while the songs ranged from whimsical to emotionally resonant, offering moments that lingered long after the credits rolled. Yet, beneath this polished surface, the story often felt disjointed, wandering through plot points that lacked foreshadowing or grounding, and leaving audiences—both young and old—scrambling to connect the dots.

    In a previous article, we pointed out the inconsistencies we noticed, and in this one, we chose to reimagine the sequel’s events in a way that feels natural and coherent, building directly on the foundations laid in the first film. In this version, Elsa’s journey is anchored in her newfound “love powers,” which literally nurture the kingdom, and her challenges unfold logically from her actions and choices. Along the way, familiar characters like Olaf and Anna continue to provide warmth and humor, while new allies, like a comically loyal animated scarecrow, offer fresh stakes and perspective.

    By restructuring the story, we aim to preserve the charm and spectacle of Frozen 2 while giving its characters arcs that feel earned, its conflicts that feel plausible, and its magical world that remains breathtaking without losing narrative sense.

    Act 1 – The Kingdom of Love

    1. Opening Growth of Arendelle – Elsa’s new “love powers” nourish the kingdom: crops grow, new homes rise, and people migrate in from nearby lands. The city bustles like never before.
    2. Olaf starts as a bucket of water – With a “don’t touch” sign attached to it and coals and carrots beside. Maybe he sings “in the summer” with dull bubbly voice.
    3. Elsa Animates the Scarecrow – While blessing farmland, Elsa accidentally brings a scarecrow to life. He is clumsy, loyal, and humorous — a grounded companion to Olaf, who later reappears from his bucket-of-water state. Love always adds to the company.
    4. Elsa’s Burden – Elsa panics when she realizes she cannot give attention and love to every new subject. Anna calms her, reminding her not to try carrying the whole kingdom alone.
    5. Envy of Neighbors – Surrounding kingdoms, losing citizens to Arendelle’s prosperity, watch with resentment. Whispers of jealousy begin to spread.
    6. Anna and Kristoff’s Engagement – Amid the growth, Anna and Kristoff get engaged, preparing for a wedding. Their joyful plans will contrast with Elsa’s growing anxieties.
    7. A Prince Arrives – Elsa meets a visiting prince (possibly from “Weaseltown” or a relative of Hans). She is intrigued, flustered, and slowly becomes obsessed, neglecting her kingdom.

    Act 2 – The Freeze of the Heart

    1. Neglect and Shadows – Elsa, distracted by the prince, pays little attention to the creeping rise of shady figures in the kingdom. Crime and unrest take root.
    2. Elsa’s Harsh Measures – Trying to “fix” things quickly, Elsa lashes out with her ice powers against troublemakers — creating collateral damage. This terrifies her people and alienates the prince.
    3. The Prince Breaks Her Heart – Shocked by her severity, the prince leaves her. Elsa’s heart shatters, and a cruel winter suddenly returns, spreading across Arendelle and beyond.
    4. Olaf Returns – Since it’s winter again, Anna takes Olaf’s water bucket onto the balcony, pours it into the snow, and Olaf re-forms, shivering but alive.
    5. Elsa Withdraws – Elsa seals herself inside her castle, freezing over the doors. She rules only by enchanted scrolls, dropped daily from her balcony. Fear spreads among her subjects.
    6. The Army in Retreat – Arendelle’s soldiers abandon their posts, preferring their home fireplaces over Elsa’s cold commands. The kingdom grows weaker and more fearful.
    7. Jealous Kingdoms Seize Opportunity – The envious neighbors unite to invade the new farmlands, claiming they will “liberate Arendelle from the witch.” With Elsa locked away, they invade the city.
    8. Anna puts on ice climbing gear – And climbs the frozen castle to warn Elsa.

    Act 3 – Exile and Redemption

    1. Elsa Driven Out – The invaders storm Arendelle, and Elsa flees into exile. They occupy the city but are frustrated that the land remains frozen solid, useless for farming.
    2. Anna and Friends Search – Anna, Kristoff, Olaf, and Scarecrow slip out, determined to find Elsa. On the way, they stop briefly at the familiar sauna shack, seeking guidance. The castle turns out empty.
    3. The Invaders’ Realization – The occupiers of Arendelle admit they’ll never gain fertile land as long as Elsa lives. They send an execution squad to track her down and finish her.
    4. Elsa in the Border Town – Elsa arrives at the isolated town, where the mayor shelters her amid complaints from the townsfolk about her lingering winter.
    5. A Mysterious Snowy Town – From the castle, Anna, Kristoff, Olaf, and the scarecrow spot an unusually snowy town far in the distance. They realize Elsa may have fled there, setting up the next leg of their journey.
    6. The Race Across the Blizzard – Anna and her companions trek through a brutal storm, struggling against the cold. It becomes a race: who will reach Elsa first, the assassins or her friends?
    7. Mayor’s Scheme – The mayor, attracted to Elsa, considers abducting or exploiting her powers for his advantage triggering her self-reflection.
    8. Elsa Confronted – In the border town, the executioners arrive just as Elsa begins to understand the harm her neglect has caused.
    9. The Apology – Anna reaches Elsa first. Elsa breaks down, admitting: “I was so obsessed with him that I neglected my kingdom. I’m so sorry.” Her tears thaw the winter and restore balance and also enchant the mayor who gets rid of executioners for her.
    10. Elsa’s Return to Arendelle – Elsa returns, publicly taking responsibility for her failings. The people forgive her and rally to her side.
    11. Repelling the Invaders – United, Arendelle’s citizens expel the greedy neighboring kingdoms. Attempts to manually thaw or conquer the land fail, proving Elsa’s unique role.
    12. Final Balance – Elsa recommits to ruling with compassion. Anna prepares for her wedding. Olaf and the scarecrow provide comic relief, symbolizing the kingdom’s resilience and grounding.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Frozen II (2019): A Plate Full of Toppings, but No Pizza

    The long-awaited sequel to Frozen arrived with all the visual flair and musical brilliance audiences expected. The animation was top-notch, the musical numbers catchy, and Olaf remained a comedic highlight. Yet despite these strengths, the story of Frozen II feels horribly disjointed. Scenes unfold with little logical connection, characters act in ways that often defy reason, and the bigger narrative picture seems almost absent.

    It’s like going for a pizza and being served a plate full of delicious toppings: gorgeous animation, dazzling visuals, and charming musical interludes. But the dough, the grounding narrative that holds everything together, is missing. The sauce, the emotional throughline that connects each scene and gives stakes their weight, is barely there. Each element works in isolation, but the overall meal is incomplete.

    Instead of offering solutions or a reimagined structure, this article will focus purely on numbering and commenting on some of the storytelling missteps the movie presents. In cronological order:

    1. Opening Lullaby

    The film begins with a lullaby, unintentionally suggesting a sleepy, passive tone rather than drawing viewers into adventure.

    2. Elsa Hearing a Voice

    Elsa suddenly begins hearing a mysterious voice directing her actions. There is no foreshadowing or grounding for this plot device, which makes her abilities feel even more “special” and further disconnects her from the audience. Following a voice also strips her of agency, preventing her from making meaningful choices and experiencing their consequences—the very spine of the story.

    3. Permafrost Olaf

    Olaf’s newfound and unexplained immunity to all temperatures removes stakes, undermines humor, and retroactively contradicts the first movie and his famous song “In Summer”.

    4. Wind Gust/Quake Inciting Incident

    A massive wind gust and trembling ground strike Arendelle with no context or logic, serving only to force characters into action.

    5. Kristoff’s Proposal Timing

    Kristoff struggles with proposing to Anna in the middle of a high-stakes quest, undermining both the quest’s importance and narrative pacing.

    6. Enchanted Forest Logic

    The enchanted forest magically blocks entry for everyone except the protagonists, with no explanation for why or how.

    7. Olaf Recap Performance

    In the middle of the film, Olaf reenacts the entirety of Frozen I, delivering exposition in the most disruptive and unprecedented way. Momentum halts, immersion dies, and the audience is treated to a meta-summary instead of organic story progression.

    8. Fire Salamander

    Introduced as an antagonist, the fire salamander has no meaningful role, serving only as visual spectacle.

    9. Earth Giant

    Similarly, the earth giants hinted as angatonists exist solely to later conveniently destroy the dam. No thematic or narrative purpose is attached.

    10. Obsession with Four Elements

    The elemental mythology is introduced without grounding or payoff. Elsa being the fifth element contributes nothing to the story. The four elements (wind, fire, water, earth) therefore largely serve as intrigue attempts, unrelated to character arcs or story stakes.

    11. Memory-from-Water Shortcut

    Elsa extracts her parents’ past and other ancestral events directly from water. This removes suspense and discovery, making the story feel instantly convenient and lazy.

    12. Shipwreck Slide Geography

    Anna slides hundreds of vertical meters despite starting at sea level—a physics/logical inconsistency.

    13. Water Horse Taming

    Elsa suddenly tames a water horse without preparation, foreshadowing, or explanation, escalating her powers arbitrarily. Water horse apparently symbolizes water spirit. I don’t think the story understands the word ‘spirit’. And why horse?

    14. Memory Transfer to Anna

    Elsa magically sends “the memory” directly to Anna’s location, undermining the existance of space/time and also bypassing Anna’s agency. I’d say when going to see movie like that, audience wanted some freedom from this mobile-phone type events.

    15. Freezing/Unfreezing Arbitrarily

    Elsa freezes at the climax for no apparent reason. Then with no apparent connection to Anna’s actions, she just unfreazes. Consequences are removed, collapsing tension.

    16. Anna’s Dam Destruction

    Anna destroys the dam thinking Elsa is dead, endangering Arendelle. The story relies entirely on Elsa surviving to justify her actions.

    17. Olaf Resurrected

    Olaf is brought back at the end, nullifying any remaining stakes and logic. Although yes, water does seem to have memory.

    18. Nothing to do with Elsa’s abilities

    Lets face it, this new story and Elsa’s quest has really nothing to do with her powers. There’s no big picture.

    19. Story Feels Like a Hallucination

    The rest of the narrative, full of visions, spirits, and arbitrary magical events, resembles a fragmented, psychedelic collage more than a coherent story. What is the deal with that glacier land of memories anyway? Perhaps the opening lullaby explains it was all just a dream.

    Conclusion

    Frozen II is a perfect example of creativity buckling under corporate pressure. Even the most talented teams, when forced to meet deadlines or appease audience expectations, can lose sight of the bigger picture. The movie’s spectacular visuals and music are undeniable, but the story itself collapses under shortcuts, inconsistent logic, and unearned conveniences. Inspiration in undeniably the first thing to suffer under pressure. What remains is the ego which is literally nothing and therefore can’t create anything meaningfull.

    The idea of “Into the Unknown” is, in itself, a powerful and deeply resonant concept. It evokes the timeless human search for God, the universe, love or the very purpose of life. A sequel built around such themes could have offered a profound journey that blended spectacle with meaning. The film did gesture at this foundation, but instead of following through, it derailed into scattered plotlines and disconnected tropes. A more focused vision would have allowed Frozen II to honor the depth behind its own title and become a story of discovery, not of the detour.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Frozen (2013): Born With Icy Powers For No Reason? Let’s Fix That Origin Story

    When Frozen first premiered, it swept the world like a snowstorm. The visuals dazzled, the characters charmed, and the songs became instant cultural staples. With over four billion combined YouTube views, “Let It Go” in particular etched itself into pop culture history. But if someone pauses to look more closely, Frozen has quite a few bones to pick—story choices that undercut the depth and coherence the film could have had.

    There’s more than enought arguments to love Frozen. But it’s also fair to admit that beneath the glitter lies some structural confusion: Elsa’s unexplained “special” powers, a hit song with mixed messaging, Hans’s last-minute heel turn, the parents’ sudden shipwreck death, and a resolution where love is pulled out of thin air. The film remains enjoyable, but these choices ask the audience to accept rather than believe.

    This time, let’s focus on grounding Elsa’s powers, because doing so not only gives her arc more weight but also helps smooth out several of the other issues.

    The Problem of the Special One

    The film tells us Elsa was simply “born with powers,” which immediately casts her as the special one. While this works on a surface level, it disconnects her from the audience. Why her? Why ice? Why danger? Without context, her powers feel like a storytelling shortcut, not a meaningful part of the world.

    And this disconnect bleeds into the story’s emotional core. When “Let It Go” arrives, the audience is asked to cheer for Elsa’s freedom. In the moment, the song works—she seems in control, claiming her identity at last. But as soon as her powers spiral out of control again, the message turns contradictory. Should we celebrate her letting loose, or worry about the danger? The foundation never feels solid.

    Inheriting the Frozen Heart

    A more coherent way to explain Elsa’s powers is to root them in her family. Imagine the King and Queen not as warm, gentle rulers cut short by tragedy, but as harsh sovereigns with frozen hearts of their own—ruling through fear and cold authority.

    Every child, in this reimagined lore, brings magic into the world. Elsa, born to rulers with frozen hearts, would inherit that curse alongside her natural magic. The result is her extraordinary but unstable ice powers: a fusion of legacy and gift, of inheritance and magic. Suddenly, Elsa is no longer arbitrarily special. She is a mirror of her parents’ corruption and the living embodiment of what it means to carry a frozen heart.

    A Shaman’s Warning and a Sister’s Counterbalance

    Fearful of what Elsa might become, the King and Queen would consult the rock trolls. A shaman tells them the truth: “The heart can only be cured from within.” That line alone reframes the story’s central conflict. It shifts the focus away from hiding, suppressing, or fearing Elsa’s abilities and onto the real question: will she find the way and strength to thaw her own heart?

    In this moment of fear and honesty, the rulers glimpse their own reflection. For once, they wonder if the problem is not Elsa but themselves. They pray for another child, a chance at redemption. The universe responds with Anna.

    Anna becomes the counterbalance, her warmth and boundless love a natural antidote to the cold legacy her family carries. She is not just comic relief or blind optimism—she is thematically essential, the one who can thaw where fear has frozen.

    A Death With Consequence

    The original film sends the King and Queen to their graves in a shipwreck. The event feels random, leaving only trauma behind. Worse still, the parents are portrayed as kind and innocent, which makes their deaths not just sad but oddly disconnected from the story’s logic.

    In this reimagining, their deaths gain purpose. The rulers either regress into their frozen ways and are struck down by the universe—no more frozen hearts at the helm—or, more interestingly, they begin to change but cannot escape their past. A subject who remembers only their tyranny sabotages their voyage, sealing their fate. The latter option keeps their arc complex: rulers who tried, however briefly, to thaw, but who could not outrun the legacy of their frozen hearts.

    Why This Change Helps Everything Else

    By rooting Elsa’s powers in her parents’ frozen hearts, the story gains coherence it otherwise lacks. Her magic is no longer random but symbolic, tied to history, legacy, and the burden of family. Anna’s warmth becomes more than youthful cheer—it is the universe’s deliberate answer to a kingdom shrouded in ice. And the parents’ deaths stop being an unearned accident and become part of the moral weight of the story.

    This single change would also smooth out the film’s other rough edges. “Let It Go” might become less contradictory and seen as Elsa wanting to free herself from her inheritance. Hans’s betrayal could be better foreshadowed as the old ways of the kingdom returning. And Elsa’s final revelation—that love thaws the frozen heart—would feel earned, because thawing hearts was the story’s foundation from the very beginning.

    Frozen remains a modern classic, but by thawing its own origins, the story could have been stronger still. This reimagining shows how even a small correction—grounding Elsa’s powers in her family’s frozen hearts—could ripple out to melt away many of the other bones fans still pick at today.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Artemis Fowl (2020): A Criminal Mastermind Needed the Proper Origin Story

    When Disney adapted Artemis Fowl to the screen, the promise was bold: the story of a twelve-year-old genius criminal mastermind, pitting his intellect against the hidden world of the fairies. But instead of a razor-sharp cat-and-mouse tale, the movie offered a muddled spectacle. Fairies appeared as high-tech soldiers, their magic reduced to gadgets. Artemis acted less like a manipulator and more like a wide-eyed boy thrust into an adventure. And yet, in the final scene, he called himself a “criminal mastermind.” The words rang hollow. Nothing in his journey justified that title.

    The problem was fundamental: the movie could not decide who was right or wrong, who acted justly or unjustly. The fairies seemed villainous one moment and sympathetic the next. Artemis was painted as sincere, even likable, befriending a fairy to reach a happy ending. But sincerity and friendship are the exact opposites of what the premise promised. By softening him, the film robbed Artemis of his defining arc.

    Why the Book Worked and the Movie Did Not

    In Eoin Colfer’s book, Artemis is no hero. He is manipulative, arrogant, and willing to cross moral lines. The tension comes from watching someone so young act with the cunning of a hardened criminal. Readers are pulled between admiration and unease. In the movie, however, this edge was dulled. By making Artemis sympathetic from the start, the story never earned his final declaration of being a “criminal mastermind”. The result was tonal dissonance — a happy ending wearing the mask of a dark one.

    Giving Artemis the Proper Path

    If Artemis Fowl is to conclude his story as a criminal mastermind, the tale must lead him there naturally. It begins by recognizing that intelligence alone is not enough. A boy who is smart from the start but untested needs flaws that put him at risk. For Artemis, arrogance and smugness would be his blind spots — the very traits that land him in trouble as he sets out to rescue his father.

    But to make that rescue matter, his father must not be an innocent victim. Artemis Sr. should be guilty of something immoral, perhaps stealing something sacred or breaking a pact with the fairies. At first, Artemis Jr. would not know this, believing his father’s capture unjust. That belief fuels his determination, even as his arrogance blinds him to the dangers ahead.

    The Dark Revelation

    At his lowest point, Artemis Jr. would be captured himself. This is where most heroes are humbled, forced to learn humility and rely on others. But Artemis is not most heroes. In captivity, he would uncover the truth: his father’s plight was the result of criminal acts. There is no lawful or noble way out. If he wishes to save his father — and himself — he must resort to the tools of a true mastermind: manipulation, lying, and promise-breaking.

    This is the moment the title “criminal mastermind” becomes earned. Not a boy playing at cleverness, but one who makes the conscious choice to weaponize his intellect in morally shady ways. Where his father faltered by trying to play both sides, Artemis Jr. doubles down, committing fully to the criminal path.

    Reimagining the Fairies

    To polish the story further, the confusion around the “tech fairies” must go. The movie’s choice to turn fairies into gadget-wielding soldiers was lazy — a shortcut to ride on familiar lore while gutting it of meaning. Instead, the fairies should be written as something richer: hybrids of fairy and human, or perhaps the remnants of an ancient race of intelligent builders who once shaped the great monuments of the world. Sensitive to sunlight, they live underground, emerging only at night. This grounds their culture in mystery and depth, making them more than props for the plot.

    The Proper Ending

    Such a reimagined story would not need to force a happy resolution. Instead, it would allow Artemis to stand where the book intended him: victorious, yes, but tainted. He wins by cheating the rules, not by befriending his enemies. He leaves not a boy pretending to be a mastermind, but a mastermind forged by revelation and choice — the boy who chose the shadows when the light failed him.

    Thank you,

    Ira