Arcaneya

Tag: 2015

  • Inside Out (2015): Learning to Incorporate Sadness Through Archetypes

    Inside Out (2015) is one of Pixar’s most thoughtful films. On the surface, it’s a colorful story about emotions inside a little girl’s mind, but underneath it is a sincere attempt to show how our inner world actually functions. Instead of heroes and villains, we follow Joy, Sadness, Fear, Anger, and Disgust as they try to guide Riley through the shock of moving to a new city.

    When we look at the film through the lens of the Major Arcana — as psychological and spiritual stages rather than mystical symbols — something interesting appears. The core character arc is not really Riley’s. It is Joy’s. She is the one who moves through will, control, collapse, humility, and integration. Riley mirrors fragments of that journey on the outside, almost as compensation for what Joy is struggling with internally.

    Even with that structural twist, the story still aligns surprisingly well with the archetypes and the film manages to express them in a way that we can grasp intuitively.

    With that perspective in mind, we can now look at Inside Out and trace how these archetypes quietly shape Joy’s journey — and, through her, Riley’s.

    Major arcana archetypes in Inside Out

    The Magician — will, light and manifestation ✅

    Children are like little Magicians: full of potential, casting light into the world. Or in this case, we could simply say Joy — who is literally full of light.

    Joy is presented as a capable manifestor. She creates joyful memories by the truckloads and genuinely believes that happiness can shape Riley’s entire world.

    The Devil — opposition to the Magician ❓

    Very quickly we also meet Sadness, whom Joy immediately interprets as her opposition. She treats Sadness as the problem — as if Sadness were the Devil. But Sadness eventually reveals herself to be deeply beneficial to Riley’s wellbeing, so she isn’t a true Devil.

    However, we could say that it was the Devil archetype that subconsciously manifested Riley’s family moving to San Francisco in such a hectic way — challenging Joy’s will and putting pressure on Riley’s inner world.

    Justice — balance and free will ✅

    Justice works subconsciously, making sure our positive perceptions are balanced with negative ones, which in turn spawns the Devil archetype and manifests both good and bad situations.

    In Riley’s case, the move stirs up fears, doubts, and anxiety. Justice creates that balancing tension so Riley has genuine free will in deciding how she will respond.

    The High Priestess — object of inspiration ✅

    Joy is basically in love with Riley and sees her as her object of inspiration. Riley is the reason for everything Joy does. The scene where wide-eyed Joy lovingly watches Riley skating is the clearest expression of this archetype.

    The Hermit — isolation ✅

    After moving to San Francisco and entering a new school, Riley feels completely alone.

    Situations like these often arise through fears and doubts that separate us from others. They begin the slow process of individuation — the path of becoming our own person.

    The Lightning — a shock of light ❌

    There is no clear strike of inspiration that captures Joy’s or Riley’s attention and gives them a new idea to strive toward. The goal throughout the film is fairly simple: get Riley “back to normal.”

    So Lightning as sudden inspiration doesn’t really appear here.

    The Star — wayshower, hope ✅

    Joyful memories serve as the Star. They give Joy direction, orientation, and hope — reminders of what Riley “used to be.”

    The Empress — elated self, arrogance, inflated ego, naivety ✅

    Joy is arrogant in believing that happiness alone is what Riley needs to adapt to her new world. She truly thinks she knows best and cannot imagine that Sadness might have any rightful place.

    The Emperor — control ✅

    Because she believes she knows best, Joy tries to control Sadness. She pushes her away from the console and tries to prevent her from influencing anything at all.

    The Wheel of Fortune — the ups and downs ✅

    When Riley meets her new classmates, Joy’s arrogance backfires. In trying to keep Sadness out, everything descends into chaos and both Joy and Sadness are thrown to the “back of the mind.”

    The Wheel of Fortune turns in the unwanted direction.

    Strength — force, manipulation ✅

    Joy repeatedly pushes Sadness away from the core memories to prevent them from becoming sad.

    She also forcefully manipulates the dream production studio in order to wake Riley up — just so the “train of thought” can start again. Strength appears as pushing, forcing, and manipulating outcomes.

    The Moon — twilight, illusion ✅

    Results gained by force are always temporary — therefore illusory.

    Riley wakes up. The train of thought moves. But soon, because of the crisis caused by that very act, train crashes. Symbolically, Riley also wakes in the middle of the night — literally inside the twilight of the Moon archetype.

    The Hanged Man — the crashing of illusions, new viewpoints ✅

    Still not humbled, Joy keeps pushing Sadness away and tries to fix everything alone and reach the headquarters through the recall chute. It fails drastically, and she crashes into the memory dump.

    There, she finally sees the truth about Sadness — understands her importance — and breaks down into tears. This is the first real shift of viewpoint.

    The Hierophant — truth told ❌

    There are no hidden secrets to be confessed and no great revelation scenes. So this archetype is mostly absent.

    The Sun — sincerity ✅

    Normally, after truth comes out, the ego is softened and some humility shows, we see heartfelt conversation. Here, something different happens.

    Since Joy learns the truth while browsing memories in the dump, her sincere conversation is actually with herself. But sincerity is still present — just internal.

    Death — ego death ✅

    Joy breaks down crying, showing humility and the end of her rigid ego stance. Later, Riley mirrors this — breaking down in front of her parents. Both surrender to truth rather than control.

    Judgement / Resurrection — rebirth ❓

    Rebirth is implied rather than explicitly shown. After Joy’s breakdown, she is reborn in a quieter way — initiated into her true, more loving higher self.

    The Two Paths (Lovers) — determination for good/bad ✅

    Once Joy understands how to help Riley, she becomes determined to return to headquarters, even from the bottom of the mind. She refuses to let Bing Bong’s doubts stop her.

    Determination appears as a decisive inner choice for good.

    The Chariot — uninhibitedness, intuition ✅

    After the death of her arrogant ego, Joy begins thinking clearly again. She finds a creative plan, escapes the dump, gathers Sadness, and returns to headquarters — where she allows Sadness to take control.

    Temperance — lightness and moderation ✅

    When the mind is free from fear and resistance, everything becomes lighter. Joy symbolically “flies” back to headquarters while carrying Sadness — a version of the mythic “magic flight.”

    The World — reconnection with the divine (true love) ✅

    Joy becomes love — and is met with love from Sadness in return. The inner world expands and becomes richer.

    Riley is also embraced by love from her parents. Returning to herself, she reconnects with her new environment and indirectly even helps heal the emotional gap in the family.

    Closing thoughts

    Overall, Inside Out works with the archetypes beautifully. Most of them appear in organic, believable ways. Still, there are a few general observations that help us see where the film simplifies things.

    Because emotions are literally shown as “in control,” Riley sometimes appears as if she has no free will. A more accurate depiction of the subconscious would probably show all the emotions speaking at once — each offering its perspective — and then Riley choosing which voice to follow. That would have aligned even more closely with how the archetypes actually work in life.

    Also, a large portion of the film is simply about Joy and Sadness trying to get back to headquarters. Not much truly shifts archetypally until the fall into the memory dump, which is where the story finally deepens and everything begins to transform.

    Still, the core idea — that sadness needs to be integrated rather than suppressed — is, I think, genius. And the way the film handles that realization is also executed beautifully!

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Pan (2015): Magical Flight In the Beginning? Not in this Reimagined Outline

    When Pan (2015) first sailed into theaters, it promised a dazzling new take on Peter Pan’s origin story. What audiences got instead was a patchwork quilt of overused tropes, strange creative choices, and one of the most infamous sequences in recent cinema: Blackbeard’s pirates belting out Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” That moment, as bizarre as it sounds, became a perfect symbol for the film—loud, confusing, and entirely disconnected from the timeless magic of J.M. Barrie’s creation. And it only got worse from there, with trope after trope piling up until the story collapsed under its own weight.

    The Flight That Ruined the Journey

    One of the most important motifs in Peter Pan’s story is flight—the ultimate symbol of freedom, belief, and transformation. In mythic storytelling terms, the “magical flight” usually comes near the end of the hero’s journey, as a culmination of growth and courage. But in Pan, the filmmakers burned through that moment almost immediately. When Blackbeard kicks Peter off the plank, Peter suddenly manages to fly, not through struggle or belief, but as if it were his destiny all along. From that instant, the movie tells us he’s “the special one,” chosen from birth, and therefore removes all suspense, ambiguity, or wonder. Why worry if Peter’s already proven to be invincible by the twenty-minute mark? The rest of the story limps on, robbed of its heart.

    How It Could Have Worked Instead

    Imagine if, instead of prematurely crowning Peter the messiah of Neverland, the film leaned into ambiguity. The fairies could whisper among themselves about an ancient legend: one day, a child wearing a magical necklace would save Neverland from the pirates. When they see Peter with the necklace, they wonder quietly if it’s him, but no one—including the audience—knows for sure. Then, when Blackbeard pushes Peter off the plank, the fairies secretly sneak in and sprinkle him with fairy dust, just enough so he flutters to safety. The pirates are stunned, just like in the original 1953 film, but this time the audience is in on the secret: it was a scam.

    Peter, of course, believes he really is the chosen one, and his swelling ego puts his friends in danger. The fairies are scolded by their “fairy grandmother” for meddling with destiny and feeding Peter’s false belief. But here’s where the arc pays off—at the climax, when everyone is cornered and all hope is lost, Peter finally manages to fly for real. Not because he was born special, but because he has grown, repented for his reckless mistakes, and found the courage to believe in himself. That moment would have carried the magic the movie so desperately needed.

    Why This Change Matters

    This small adjustment alone could have transformed Pan from a hollow origin story into a myth worth retelling. It would have preserved the ambiguity of Peter’s destiny, given him an actual character arc, and left the audience with the same awe and wonder that Barrie’s original story still evokes. Instead, what we got was a fast-track to “chosen one” status, followed by a cringe-worthy holographic fairy-dust mother, duplicated Cara Delevingne mermaids, and, yes, a pirate choir that belonged more in karaoke night than Neverland.

    Sometimes the difference between a story collapsing and a story soaring isn’t a massive rewrite—it’s simply knowing when not to spend your most magical moment.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The DUFF (2015): Ironing the Prom Dress and Rekindling the Reckoning

    The DUFF was one of those teen comedies that seemed poised to be more than just a laugh. Its central idea — that every friend group has a “Designated Ugly Fat Friend,” the approachable one meant to make others look better by comparison — had the makings of a sharp commentary on high school hierarchies. With Mae Whitman in the lead, it even promised a bit more charm and bite than the typical teen rom-com. But despite its intriguing hook, the movie stumbled into a familiar trap: instead of dismantling the toxic labels it introduced, it leaned into makeover clichés, predictable beats, and a romance-driven resolution that undercut the very point it seemed to want to make.

    The biggest pitfall came from its focus. Rather than making Bianca’s arc about genuine growth, the film positioned her self-worth around winning a boy and gaining acceptance. Her so-called reckoning — when Toby, the boy she likes, turns her down — isn’t a true turning point. It’s a moment of rejection, not a moment of realization. There’s no sense that Bianca has truly failed because of her choices, only that she didn’t get the guy. For a story about breaking free of labels, the stakes are shockingly shallow.

    Another misstep lies in how Bianca’s transformation is handled. Much of her growth is orchestrated by Wesley, the popular neighbor who becomes her coach in confidence, style, and dating. While their dynamic is meant to lead to romance, it often strips Bianca of agency, making Wesley feel like the arbiter of her identity. Even when he calls her out for becoming fake, it feels more like guidance from above than a mutual journey.

    What The DUFF could have done — and what would make the story truly resonate — is embrace a deeper arc of trial, failure, and eventual self-possession. Bianca’s change shouldn’t be marked by whether Toby likes her, or even whether Wesley does, but by whether she can face the same kind of ridicule that crushed her at the start and walk away unshaken. Her victory isn’t in becoming someone different, but in becoming someone unbothered.

    An Alternative Outline

    In a reimagined version, Bianca’s story would begin similarly: she’s stung by the “DUFF” label, and she believes the answer is to “fix” herself. She has already picked out a quirky, very “her” dress for prom — something vintage or bold, something that makes her happy. Her friends, though, tell her it’s too much, “too Bianca,” nudging her toward a safer, trendier version of herself. The dress goes into the back of the closet, a quiet symbol of the self she’s setting aside.

    From there, Bianca tries two paths. First, the classic makeover. She lets Wesley guide her, changes her wardrobe, plays the game, and gets noticed. But it spirals. She distances herself from her real friends, laughs at jokes she doesn’t find funny, even participates in mocking someone just to fit in. The momentary rush of attention ends with humiliation — maybe the mean girl captures her fakery on video, twisting it into a viral joke. Her friends are furious. Wesley, seeing how far she’s strayed, backs away, not as a mentor, but as someone who’s made the same mistakes himself. This isn’t just embarrassment; it’s Bianca realizing she’s betrayed herself, and everyone sees it.

    Her second attempt is rebellion. She decides she’ll burn the whole hierarchy down, mock the labels openly, maybe even stage a protest or prank to make the cool kids look ridiculous. At first it feels liberating, but it turns ugly. Her stunt backfires, she looks like a bully, and whatever credibility she had left crumbles. Both paths — fitting in and blowing it all up — leave her more lost than ever.

    It’s only when she stops trying to control how others see her that Bianca starts to recover. She digs out the prom dress she loved, the one her friends once dismissed, and when they see it now, they don’t hesitate: “Perfect.” Not because the dress is different, but because Bianca is. She wears it proudly, and when the inevitable happens — the mean girl or someone else tries to mock her in front of everyone — Bianca shrugs it off, maybe even laughs with them. The room moves on. For the first time, she’s truly free of the label, not because she toppled the social order, but because it no longer has power over her.

    Wesley fits into this version not as the architect of Bianca’s transformation, but as someone on a parallel journey. He’s wrestling with his own label — the “dumb jock” coasting through life — and Bianca helps him just as much as he helps her. Their eventual romance is a byproduct of mutual growth, not the central prize. The real payoff is Bianca’s immunity, her changed reaction to the same pressures that once crushed her.

    With this structure, The DUFF would become more than a forgettable teen comedy. It would be a story about how true change isn’t in how we look, who we date, or whether the world likes us — it’s in how we respond when the world doesn’t. By giving Bianca a real reckoning, showing her fail not just at romance but at life strategies that betray her nature, and bringing her arc full circle with that simple dress, the story would land with honesty and heart. The script wouldn’t just entertain; it would give its audience something to carry with them, long after the prom lights fade.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Aloha (2015): A Missed Connection with Story and Spirit — and How It Could Have Soared

    There’s a certain charm baked into Aloha (2015) that suggests it could have been something special. The film is directed by Cameron Crowe, whose earlier works (Almost Famous, Jerry Maguire) managed to blend warmth, introspection, and emotional authenticity in a way that few filmmakers pull off. Aloha also boasts a cast overflowing with talent: Bradley Cooper, Rachel McAdams, Emma Stone, Bill Murray, and Alec Baldwin, each bringing more than enough charisma to command a compelling drama.

    But somehow, Aloha misses the mark entirely. It meanders between romantic entanglements, military conspiracies, and spiritual themes without ever landing solidly on any of them. Characters change direction without clear motivation. Conflicts are introduced with fanfare and then resolved with a shrug. And worst of all, the emotional payoff is diluted by a plot that never earns its big moments. The result is a confusing narrative that feels like several half-finished ideas stitched together with voiceovers and awkward exposition.

    The film centers on Brian Gilcrest (Cooper), a disgraced military contractor returning to Hawaii for a new mission: to help facilitate the launch of a private satellite under the guise of goodwill and space cooperation. He’s paired with an energetic Air Force pilot, Allison Ng (Stone), and quickly finds himself caught in a love triangle with his ex, Tracy (McAdams). The central conflict involves a morally questionable satellite payload, a half-hearted nod to Hawaiian spirituality, and Brian’s last-minute attempt at redemption through hacking and sabotage.

    Unfortunately, none of this sticks. The satellite storyline feels strangely disconnected from the setting. The Hawaiian culture is invoked but not meaningfully engaged. The relationships have potential but are resolved with emotional shortcuts. And Brian’s final gesture — hacking the launch to stop a weaponized satellite — feels less like character growth and more like narrative convenience. It’s a shame, because the ingredients for a powerful story were all there. They just needed direction, structure, and thematic coherence.

    So what if Aloha had gone in a different direction? What if instead of a vague tech thriller set in Hawaii, the story was fundamentally about Hawaii — about its land, its people, and the tension between exploitation and harmony?

    The Alternate Outline

    In a reimagined outline, Brian still returns to the islands under the shadow of past failures. But instead of facilitating a satellite launch, he’s now contracted to help negotiate the release of sacred mountain land for a new facility: a supposed weather research station that is in fact part of a secret government weather manipulation program, aimed at controlling global climate patterns for strategic gain.

    This premise immediately roots the story in the location. Hawaii, with its deep spiritual connection to nature, becomes not just a backdrop but a character — one in conflict with Brian’s mission. The contrast is clear and resonant: locals working with nature vs. outsiders trying to control it.

    Brian, eager to prove himself and seduced by money and prestige, brags about his return to Tracy, hoping to rekindle something from their past. Allison, meanwhile, is assigned to accompany him and gradually softens toward him as she believes he’s trying to do the right thing. But Tracy uncovers the true purpose of the project and confronts Brian, forcing him to face what he’s really doing.

    In this version, when Brian tries to sabotage the weather program — not by clever hacking but by acting on a gut instinct to do something “good” — it backfires. He’s caught, scorned by Allison, and accused of recklessness motivated more by old feelings than by moral clarity. This becomes the real low point, not a triumphant “save the day” moment, but a reckoning.

    Then something unexpected happens. The locals, seeing that negotiation has failed, hold a ritual to appeal to nature itself — a storm that they believe can disrupt the unnatural machinery being erected on the mountain. Brian, Allison, and even the audience are skeptical. But the storm does come. It batters the facility, though the project presses on.

    Only later, after Brian has let go of trying to win anyone back and finally accepts responsibility, does nature deliver its final judgment: a massive landslide, triggered by the soaked earth, destroys the facility completely. The sabotage Brian failed to carry out is completed by the land itself. It’s poetic, earned, and deeply in tune with the film’s new themes.

    In this revised structure, every element becomes clearer. Brian’s arc shifts from arrogant contractor to humbled man seeking real redemption. The love triangle becomes more than romantic tension — it’s about values: loyalty, truth, and personal growth. Hawaii isn’t set dressing, it’s the moral center of the story. The climax isn’t about a last-minute code entered into a laptop, but about the larger forces — spiritual and environmental — that no amount of technology can conquer.

    Aloha could have been a story about listening — to people, to the land, to one’s own conscience. This version makes that journey visible, emotional, and real.

    If anything, Aloha reminds us of this enduring lesson in storytelling: when you don’t earn the stakes, the audience doesn’t feel the resolution. But when you root conflict in character and theme, even nature can become a protagonist.

    Thanks,

    Ira

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

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

    But what we got was something far messier.

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

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

    Alternative opening proposal

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

    Now that would be an opening!

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

    Smash cut to Earth

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

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

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

    Thank you for reading,

    Ira

  • 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