Arcaneya

Tag: 2013

  • 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

  • Identity Thief (2013): Introducing Some Cosmic Imbalance for a Proper Archetypal Beginning

    When Identity Thief came out, critics and audiences were quick to point out its flaws. On paper, the movie had all the right ingredients for a comedy with heart: Jason Bateman’s uptight everyman colliding with Melissa McCarthy’s chaotic trickster energy. But the recipe just didn’t come together. Much of the fault lies in how the story began. The opening setup was not only unbelievable on more occasions than one—it was, at its core, misaligned.

    The most glaring problem was this: Sandy, presented to us as an honest, hardworking man, is suddenly scammed out of his identity. It doesn’t quite click. Comedy—especially comedy with some heart—rarely works when pure virtue is simply punished. If Sandy is so utterly without fault, then the theft feels unfair and arbitrary. Without an initial imbalance, there’s no cosmic logic to what follows, only a string of hijinks.

    The Missing Imbalance

    The fix lies not in piling on more gags, but in looking back to the archetypes that have always sustained comedy. Stories of this kind work best when they begin with a small dishonesty, a slight bending of the truth, a little cosmic imbalance. That imbalance draws forth chaos—the trickster character, the accident, the storm—that forces the hero to confront themselves.

    So let’s imagine Sandy not as spotless, but as human. Out of desperation to provide for his family, he scams his way into a promotion. Maybe he bends his résumé, maybe he stretches a sales pitch, maybe he cuts corners. It’s not a grand con, but it’s enough to place him in a shadowy gray area.

    And then, when his first inflated paycheck comes in, the exact surplus amount is stolen. Not a random theft, not a punishment for goodness, but a karmic echo of his own misstep. The universe, in the shape of McCarthy’s Diana, has delivered balance. Now the story starts to hum with archetypal tension.

    Why Balance Matters

    This is how comedies have always found their footing. In Shakespeare’s comedies, a lie or disguise throws the world into chaos until truth is confessed. In Wilder’s films, a cheat or shortcut invites the trickster’s intrusion. The balance is disturbed, and then restored, but only after chaos and honesty have done their work.

    By giving Sandy this small initial scam, the story anchors itself in that timeless rhythm. He’s not just a victim of absurd circumstance—he’s part of the equation. Which also means, when the third act arrives and Diana bares her soul, Sandy has something of his own to confess. He didn’t earn his new life honestly either. His flaw mirrors hers, and so their eventual bond feels earned.

    A Natural Road Into the Journey

    The film also stumbles in how it sends Sandy on the road in the first place. The idea that he would fly across the country, physically drag a stranger back, and that this would somehow resolve the situation is more far-fetched than the premise can support.

    A better path grows naturally from this rebalanced setup. At first, Sandy travels only to confront Diana, maybe to get a signature or clear up the mess in some legal form. But once they meet, once their odd chemistry starts to spark, the idea of returning together grows out of the interaction itself. It doesn’t feel imposed by the screenwriter’s hand—it flows like water from the characters colliding.

    The Comedy That Could Have Been

    These two changes—a Sandy with a shadow, and a more natural entry into the road trip—wouldn’t just smooth over plot holes. They’d give the movie an archetypal backbone, a sense that the universe has order, even in comedy. Instead of a random mismatch of hijinks, we’d see a dance of imbalance and restoration, a meeting of two flawed people who end up finding honesty in each other.

    Had Identity Thief embraced that rhythm, it might have been more than a loose collection of gags. It might have resonated as a story where chaos leads to truth, where balance is restored. And if that had been the case, there’s no doubt its IMDb score would sit at least a point higher today.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Purge (2013): Straightening Act 1 for Maximum Tension and Moral Irony

    The Purge (2013) has a brilliant concept: a society where all crime is legal for twelve hours. Yet the original execution rushes straight into purge night, leaving audiences with standard “someone might kill you for no reason” thrills rather than truly earned suspense. The movie barely establishes the world, the characters’ motivations, or the tension that should naturally build before the purge begins. In this article, we focus on straightening Act 1, showing how a slower, layered introduction could make the story richer, funnier, and morally compelling.

    Building the Mundane World Before Chaos

    A classic story introduction contrasts the ordinary with the extraordinary. In a tightened Act 1, the days before the purge would be filled with subtle tension and dark humor. Two girls gossiping about a breakup idea illustrate this perfectly: “Are you absolutely insane… one week before the purge?” one warns. “Don’t worry… three days before, I’m gone to a place nobody knows,” the other replies coolly. Even mundane decisions feel like life-or-death choices, and the audience senses a world teetering on the edge of chaos.

    The neighborhood itself hums with tension. Micro-resentments, petty grudges, and whispered judgments ripple through interactions. Every glance, comment, or minor slights carry weight — foreshadowing that these ordinary frustrations will explode during the purge.

    Churches Full of Anxiety

    Two days before the purge, churches are packed to the brim. Families, neighbors, and anxious individuals fill pews, candles flicker, and soft organ music underscores collective unease. Ethan Hawke’s character is there, lingering long after the service. He isn’t merely seeking spiritual comfort; he’s wrestling with guilt over a professional misstep. Earlier this year, he badmouthed a competing consulting company, indirectly causing harm. Sitting quietly, he contemplates his moral failures while the congregation murmurs and neighbors exchange subtle, loaded glances. Even before violence strikes, tension pervades every interaction.

    Ethan’s Morally Ambiguous Motivation

    In this version, Ethan isn’t simply a protective dad — he’s a flawed, morally grey figure. He runs a consulting service, advising neighbors on purge survival, and profits handsomely from their fear and paranoia. He has bought himself protective equipment, but the irony is that on purge night, he locks his neighbors out, leaving them vulnerable.

    This setup layers the story with moral tension. Ethan’s paranoia isn’t just personal; it’s fueled by guilt and opportunism. His internal conflict surfaces in subtle ways: at work, a colleague confronts him about the earlier incident, urging him to apologize. Ethan snaps defensively: “I have nothing to apologize for!” The audience sees a man struggling with hubris, ethics, and survival — a far more compelling protagonist than a generic protective father.

    Paranoia and Dark Humor

    One day before the purge, a car parks across Ethan’s street. He immediately suspects revenge from the competitor company he undermined, his paranoia peaking. The camera closes on the car… only to reveal two junkies smoking pot, oblivious to him. This moment combines dark humor with character development, highlighting Ethan’s obsessive lens and building tension without immediate violence.

    Setting Up Purge Night

    All of these elements — neighborhood micro-resentments, high-strung churchgoers, office confrontations, and the suspicious car — converge to build psychological and moral tension. By the time purge night arrives, the stakes feel earned: it’s not just about surviving masked intruders, but about a community simmering with grudges, a protagonist with secrets and guilt, and moral consequences that will explode in darkly ironic ways.

    Imagine the tension if Ethan were hiding even more from his wife — perhaps a mistress, adding personal stakes on top of moral ones. Suddenly, every choice he makes before and during the purge feels consequential, suspenseful, and even absurdly funny. A straightened Act 1 like this transforms the film from a rushed horror concept into a layered, psychologically rich thriller, where each moment of pre-purge tension pays off in chaos that is both thrilling and morally complex.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Lone Ranger (2013): The Film Had a Heart — But It Didn’t Let It Beat

    In the eyes of many, The Lone Ranger (2013) was a misfire — overlong, overproduced, and tonally uneven. But beneath the bloated runtime and tonal confusion lies a surprisingly solid foundation. Watching the film for the first time, it’s easy to feel lost: the pacing is erratic, the motives murky, and too many scenes rely on coincidence rather than clarity. It’s only on a second viewing, with the notebook of plot points already in your head, that the story begins to make actual sense.

    That’s the tragedy of Gore Verbinski’s take on this iconic figure. The story is there. The emotional threads are present. But they’re tangled — wrapped in too many shortcuts and weighed down by a reluctance to slow down and breathe. Most of the missteps come not from bad ideas, but from undercooked execution. It’s a movie constantly sprinting to the next spectacle before earning what came before.

    One of the most glaring casualties of this rush is the film’s emotional core: the relationship between John Reid and Rebecca. According to classic Lone Ranger lore, John is a man who puts justice above everything — including love. He’s chaste, pure, almost mythic. That idea might have worked in the 1930s, but in a post-modern story about revenge, loss, and identity, it feels hollow. Gore Verbinski clearly saw this and tried to address it by giving John a complicated romantic history with Rebecca, the widow of his brother Dan. It was a smart move — one that injected stakes, humanity, and a pulse into the legend.

    And yet, it doesn’t go far enough. Rebecca is introduced with the weight of a shared past, but the movie keeps her at arm’s length. She’s more plot device than person, and John, bound by the idea that “justice comes first,” rarely allows himself to fully engage with the pain — or hope — that she represents. He’s on fire, but he won’t let it burn. The one kiss they share happens mid-chaos, mid-train, mid-movie — and lands with more awkwardness than passion.

    Man is inspired by women

    A better version of this story would embrace the truth that love isn’t a distraction for men like John — it’s the very reason they fight. Rebecca should be more than a passive figure to be rescued; she should be the source of the moral line John clings to. It is her presence, her belief in him, that prevents him from becoming another outlaw with a badge. And his mask? Perhaps it isn’t just to strike fear or hide his identity — perhaps it’s to protect her. If Cole or Butch knew John was alive, Rebecca would be the first target. So the mask becomes a symbol not just of justice, but of sacrifice.

    The story doesn’t need a perfect Hollywood ending. Rebecca and John don’t need to ride into the sunset. But there should be emotional movement — some quiet suggestion that his feelings are real, and her presence changed him. Leave it open, yes — but make us believe it matters.

    Properly foreshadowed betrayal

    One element that sorely lacked proper foreshadowing was the betrayal by Collins. In the final film, his sudden turn feels like a twist for twist’s sake — a necessary plot move without emotional grounding. A more refined version of the story would have subtly planted tension earlier on. Perhaps John, fresh from the East and unfamiliar with the men in Dan’s unit, voices quiet unease about trusting strangers, especially Collins, whose past with Dan might include an unresolved dispute or a moment of being passed over for leadership. A line of hesitation, a sideways glance, or a scene where Dan asserts authority over a bristling Collins would have gone a long way in making the betrayal feel like a tragic inevitability rather than a convenient shock. With a few deft touches, Collins’ turn could have reinforced the story’s central themes: the cost of trust, the fragility of loyalty, and the blind spots that justice — and vengeance — often overlook.

    Another narrative misfire comes in the form of the Comanche, and particularly their senseless massacre halfway through the film. Tonto’s people, positioned early on as wise, cautious, and connected to the land, are drawn into the conflict — only to be wiped out in a brutal cavalry ambush that adds shock but no narrative payoff. They die not for a cause, but because the film wanted a heavy turn. Worse still, they never return. Their story ends in tragedy and silence.

    This is where the rewrite almost writes itself.

    The noble savages

    Rather than have the Comanche walk blindly into Cole’s false-flag war, they should see it coming. They’ve seen this game played before — blame the natives, rally the army, take the land. Tonto wants vengeance, but the tribe refuses. Not out of fear, but out of wisdom. Revenge, they say, is a circle of fire. They will not burn for it again. Tonto is left behind, bitter and alone, convinced he’s been abandoned by his people.

    But they haven’t abandoned him. They’ve just chosen a different moment to act. In the final train sequence — that chaotic, beautifully shot climax — when John and Tonto are at their breaking point, it’s the Comanche who return. Not to massacre, not to exact revenge, but to protect. With strategic precision and spiritual dignity, they intervene. They break the cycle. And when it’s done, they vanish like ghosts of a better world. No fanfare. No flags. Just justice served, in silence.

    These changes don’t require an entirely new script. They require respect for emotional arcs, patience for character growth, and trust in the audience to want more than just action. The Lone Ranger could have been a legend reawakened — a Western myth reborn with complexity and soul. But in its rush to entertain, it left its own heart under the dust.

    There’s still a great movie buried inside The Lone Ranger — one where John’s restraint is powered by his love, not stifled by it. One where the Comanche choose not destruction, but dignity. One where justice isn’t just a symbol… but a choice made every day, in the face of pain, anger, and love.

    Hi-yo Silver, away. But next time, maybe let the man ride with his heart unmasked.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Internship (2013): False Victories, Real Growth: How We Reimagined Flawed But Lovable Story

    The Internship is one of those comedies that sneaks up on you with charm. It shouldn’t work—two out-of-touch salesmen talking their way into a Google internship program—but it does, at least in bursts. Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson bring their usual charisma, and the movie genuinely wants to say something about change, adaptation, and belonging in a world that’s passed you by.

    But as fun as it is, it’s also deeply flawed.

    The story moves on autopilot. Challenges appear and vanish without weight. Stakes feel artificial. And moments that should reshape the characters—like the Quidditch match or the infamous strip club scene—just feel out of place. The movie wants to be both a goofy underdog story and a heartfelt tale of reinvention, but it never commits to either. As a result, it becomes a feel-good montage machine that avoids the hard truths it flirts with.

    So we reimagined it. Not because we hate it, but because we like it. And we think it could have been more than just fun—it could have actually meant something.

    In the original film, the Quidditch match is a false defeat: Billy and Nick’s team loses, they get mocked, and it seems like they’re out of their league. But instead of sitting with that failure or growing from it, the story skips right to a strip club scene where everything magically turns around. The emotional arc gets cheated—their failure doesn’t shape them, and their redemption isn’t earned.

    The Reimagined Outline

    In our version, we flip the emotional structure entirely. The Quidditch match becomes a false victory instead of a false defeat.

    Billy, desperate to prove his worth, tells the team they need to win something—anything. “We need a W,” he says. “Doesn’t matter what kind. Something primal. Something stupid.” So they lean into the next challenge: a campus-wide Quidditch match.

    With old-fashioned trash talk, aggressive tactics, and a bit of dumb luck, they beat the front-runners. The team celebrates like kings. For a moment, they feel like they’ve cracked the code.

    High on adrenaline from the Quidditch win but already hitting a wall with the next team challenge, Billy—frustrated and looking for another spark—insists they go out. “Let’s keep the streak alive,” he says. “This is how real team bonding happens.”

    And that’s how they end up at a strip club.

    But instead of the feel-good bonding scene from the original film, it’s a disaster. Lyle freezes up. Neha is visibly disgusted. Yo-Yo disappears into the bathroom and doesn’t come back out. Nick tries to apologize mid-lap dance. Billy gets into a shouting match with a bouncer over a “VIP package” that never arrives.

    Eventually, the group storms out. Neha, normally cool and sarcastic, finally snaps:

    “You said you wanted to help us win. You just wanted to feel like you still mattered.”

    Even Lyle, the quietest of them all, adds: “This wasn’t about us.”

    That’s the real turning point. Not Quidditch. Not code. But failure. Humiliation. A moment where Billy and Nick realize they don’t understand this world—or the people in it—nearly as well as they thought.

    The next morning, they return to campus defeated. They’ve missed a morning deadline. Their standing drops. Their mentor gives them nothing but silent disapproval. And for the first time, Billy and Nick find themselves truly alone. Their team eats at another table. They are the outsiders now.

    And that’s when something real happens.

    They finally stop talking. They start listening. They stop trying to lead with energy and charm, and begin supporting with patience and humility. They ask questions. They admit what they don’t know. They give the others room to shine.

    From that point on, the group starts to truly come together—not because of a party, or a fluke victory, but because everyone finally understands each other. Trust, not showmanship, becomes the glue.

    The Finale

    And when they finally do succeed—whether by winning the internship or simply creating something that matters—it feels earned. Real. Like something you actually believe could happen.

    And in the final scene, after the speech, the coding challenge, the hugs and the handshakes—there’s one last callback.

    The team is sitting outside, glowing from the win. Someone, maybe Lyle, leans in awkwardly and says:

    “Not that I liked it or anything… but those waitresses were… definitely committed to their job.”

    Stuart nods, deadpan: “I kinda miss the wings.”

    Everyone turns to Billy and Nick.

    Nick grins. “Round two?”

    Billy snaps his fingers. “Let’s Google-map our way to some personal growth.”

    Cut to the strip club. Same place. Different vibe. This time, they walk in with confidence. Yo-Yo orders the drinks. Neha rolls her eyes, but smiles. Lyle gets a wink from the bartender. And for the first time, it actually feels like celebration—not compensation.

    The difference?

    They didn’t win because they beat the system.
    They won because they finally understood it.
    And each other.

    That’s a story worth telling.

    Thanks.

    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

  • 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

  • Man of steel (2013) – An Overrated Pile of Space Waste

    Storywise ofcourse. But what good are decent cinematography, visuals or acting if your story isn’t solid?

    It actually had a strong premise for meaningful character development: a superpowered extraterrestrial who wants to help but is held back by his father’s doubts and fears. The idea of a reluctant hero destined for greatness once he overcomes those restraints had tremendous dramatic potential. Instead, the story shifts into a demolition derby—city-leveling battles with Kryptonians that, while visually impressive, overshadow the more human and emotional aspects of the narrative. Also, if everyone is infinitely powerful, is anyone really infinitely powerful?

    But that’s not even the worse of it. So here is the list of the most blatant storytelling sins that I’ve gathered:

    They turned Superman into a MacGuffin*

    SuperManGuffin, basically. They hid the krypton codex into the poor guy. And it’s super important all right — because now the entire Kryptonian civilization somehow hinges on him, and they’ll stop at nothing to get to him.

    But why would Jor-El — his own father — do something like that to a baby? And more importantly, why would the writers do that to him?

    Because now his entire identity becomes meaningless. He’s not important because of who he is or what he chooses to stand for — he’s important because of some codex no one in the audience even cares about.

    But here’s the real story problem:

    Villains represent hero’s shadow self

    Villains—in this case, the Kryptonians or whoever they may be—should represent Superman’s shadow self: a reflection of his negative choices, or at most, the karmic baggage of his parents’ past.

    If he’s a force for good in the universe, as he clearly is, the universe should respond in kind. And yet, we still have these guys coming after him with relentless aggression. Sure, they’re technically after the MacGuffin—but still.

    How hard would it really be to write Superman making a bad choice—one that actually leads to the emergence of villains?

    His motivation didn’t even come from him

    No, Superman’s motivation didn’t come from trying to impress his mom, father, Lois, or something similar, that would come from within. But instead, his father Jor-El basically told him what to be.

    “The people of Earth are different. I believe that’s a good thing. They won’t make the same mistakes we did—not if you guide them, not if you give them hope. That’s what this symbol (S) means,” said Jor-El, rather half-heartedly.

    It was almost as if even Russell Crowe knew that wasn’t the way to truly motivate someone. And this whole idea of the “S” somehow representing hope? As far as I can tell, it’s not an H.

    Why did they write Jor-El into the story that way, anyway? Would it really have been so impossible to make Superman a hopeful character without ever knowing his father? Or couldn’t they have introduced him in a different, less intrusive way? Because the way they handled it only dragged the story down even more.

    The data dumping sin

    Clark wanders into a buried Kryptonian scout ship. Jor-El’s hologram appears and just downloads the entire history of Krypton, his origin, and his purpose — all at once.

    The audience gets wall-to-wall exposition:

    • What Krypton was
    • What the Codex is
    • Why he was sent to Earth
    • What Zod is doing
    • Why Clark matters

    And boom — the mystery, the tension, the self-discovery? All gone in 5 minutes of AI hologram monologue.

    And at the end of it, the truly impossible happens.

    The Superman suit from the christmas past

    Jor-El presents Superman with his signature suit—no inspiration, no action, no character development leading up to it, so it ends up being symbolic of nothing.

    And worst of all, it’s somehow just sitting there on a 20,000-year-old Kryptonian ship buried in the Canadian ice. How exactly is that possible? Complete with the House of El crest and everything?

    Sometimes I wonder if I’m being intentionally hit with this kind of cognitive dissonance just so my conscious mind shuts off—and they sneak in some Coca-Cola programming or something.

    Zod hates Clark for no reason

    When you stop and think about it for more than five seconds, why do Krypton people hate Clark? He is one of them and they should trust he would want to cooperate at least a bit.

    Instead? It’s just “Join us or die,” like a generic villain script written with the caps lock stuck on.

    Zod literally attacks the one being who he thinks holds the only chance at rebuilding his people.

    Zod’s TED talk in Clark Kent’s dreams

    And here we go again—another massive info-dump, with Zod unloading his side of Krypton’s lore while Clark is supposedly unconscious.

    I call that the “Dream That Isn’t” sin.

    Everyone says, “Show, don’t tell,” but once you’ve written yourself into a corner a couple of times, the only option left seems to be a data dump just to get the plot moving again.

    However, at this point, it didn’t even matter—the showdown between “gods” was about to begin, heartless and massively destructive.

    Well, at least they managed to acknowledge the obvious Superman character development conundrum: how do you present meaningful trials and tribulations for a character who’s already great?

    And for that, i give the story 2/10.

    Ira

    *MacGuffin – A term, coined by Alfred Hitchcock, describing a story item important to the characters and plot development but not at all to the audidence.