Arcaneya

Tag: 2016

  • Office Christmas Party (2016): A Comedy That Knows Exactly What It’s Doing

    At first glance, Office Christmas Party looks like exactly what its reputation suggests: a loud, chaotic holiday comedy built around excess, vulgarity, and corporate satire. It rarely appears in conversations about meaningful storytelling, let alone mythic structure. And yet, beneath the noise, the film is remarkably disciplined. Its chaos is not random, its excess is not hollow, and its resolution is not accidental.

    What makes Office Christmas Party unusual is that it treats disorder as a function, not a flaw. The story understands that systems do not collapse because of too much life, but because of too little. Rules harden, creativity dries up, and fear replaces play. When that happens, disruption becomes not only inevitable, but necessary. The film stages this disruption openly, almost shamelessly, but it never loses sight of what the chaos is meant to achieve: the restoration of movement, connection, and collective will.

    Viewed through the lens of the Major Arcana — especially when the cards are understood as stages of lived experience rather than mystical abstractions — Office Christmas Party reveals itself as a surprisingly precise archetypal journey. Not of a single hero, but of a group. A company. A system on the brink of collapse that must pass through illusion, exposure, ego death, and reintegration in order to survive.

    What follows is a reading of the film through that archetypal arc — one that shows how even the most unruly comedy can follow a mythic structure down to a T, when it understands what it is actually trying to heal.

    Major arcana archetypes in Office Christmas party

    The Magician — will, endurance, and manifestation ✅

    The story opens with Josh as the Magician. He has already endured a long and exhausting year of negotiations and successfully manifested a favorable outcome in his divorce. This endurance matters. His will has been tested and proven. It is also the holiday season, and the film visually reinforces the idea that “magic is in the air” as the camera follows Josh into the story. He enters as someone who knows how to push through resistance.

    The Devil — negativity as opposition ✅

    Opposition arrives immediately. Josh’s ex-wife and his incompetent attorney friend form the first expression of the Devil archetype: negativity that challenges will, drains momentum, and attempts to pull the Magician back into frustration and collapse.

    This pattern later scales up. Carol embodies the Devil for Clay and for the entire company, confronting them with contracts, shutdowns, and financial pressure. The Devil here is not evil intent, but relentless negation — the force that tests whether will can hold.

    Justice — free will under pressure ✅

    When magic and negativity balance each other, the world becomes mundane and uncomfortable. This is the terrain of Justice. Clarity disappears, fear enters, and choice becomes unavoidable. When Josh enters the office in this confused and pressured state, he is immediately confronted by HR and forced to make decisions. Justice is not moral judgment here — it is the moment where no external force decides for you. You need to weigh the options yourself.

    The Hermit — isolation after collapse ✅

    Following the divorce and the emotional drain surrounding it, Josh feels inwardly empty and alone. This isolation is not social but existential. The Hermit phase strips away noise and distraction, making him capable of seeing truth clearly. It is precisely from this lonely vantage point that inspiration becomes visible.

    The High Priestess — inspiration, both creative and romantic ✅

    Tracey enters as the High Priestess. She represents unmanifested potential — ideas not yet formed, systems not yet built. She is also beautiful, which makes her not only a business inspiration but a romantic one. She does not act; she reveals. She does not force outcomes; she invites alignment.

    The Lightning — the spark of ideas ✅

    Guided by Josh’s Magician energy, Tracey produces ideas that could advance the company. These ideas arrive suddenly, like lightning breaking through a frightening night. They do not guarantee success, but they illuminate possibility. Inspiration strikes before certainty ever does.

    The Empress — elevation and inflated expectation ✅

    The belief that a single pitch to Data City will save the company is premature, yet the group emotionally invests in it. This expectation is sustained by Carol’s Empress energy — an ego elevated by status and authority, dimly convinced that it might succeed.

    The Wheel of Fortune — rise and fall ✅

    The insincere pitch predictably fails. Walter Davis rejects them. The wheel turns downward. In many depictions of the Wheel of Fortune, a sphinx sits atop the wheel as a gatekeeper. Walter embodies that role here, spear pointed directly at their hearts and hopes. The film makes clear that sincerity cannot be bypassed by optimism alone.

    The Star — hope that persists ✅

    As morale collapses, Tracey becomes the Star. She sustains hope not by denying reality, but by refusing despair. Clay consequently reaches for the only solution he knows at this stage: control. The seeds of the Emperor archetype are planted.

    The Emperor and Strength — control as a strategy ✅

    To force an outcome, the group throws a massive, reckless party. This is an attempt to dominate circumstances through spectacle and excess. Together they try to tame the sphinx — Walter — through overwhelming force, believing that power and pressure can replace alignment.

    The Moon — illusion exposed ✅

    Manipulation produces only illusion. Walter’s drug-fueled agreement turns out to be meaningless; he never had the authority to say yes. The moonlit exterior dancing scene is not decorative — it geniously marks the triumph of moon illusion over truth. What appears solid dissolves by morning.

    The Hanged Man — suspension and collapse ✅

    The illusion begins to unravel when Walter attempts to swing Tarzan-style on Christmas lights and crashes to the floor. Action halts. Momentum collapses. The story enters suspension. The Hanged Man appears precisely when forcing reality finally fails.

    The Hierophant — truth revealed ✅

    Truths spill out in rapid succession. Carol discovers the party. Nate’s relationship is exposed as false. Carol reveals that Josh considered leaving Clay’s branch. Walter’s true status is uncovered — he was fired earlier that day. The Hierophant does not comfort; it reveals. And revelation hurts.

    The Sun — heart-to-heart sincerity ✅

    Amid the chaos, Mary from HR admits she, too, manipulated an employee. This quiet confession matters. The Sun shines not through success, but through honesty. Burdens are spoken aloud, and clarity briefly returns.

    The Lovers — determination and chosen direction ✅

    Clay reaches a turning point. He wants real change. He wants to cross the bridge and not look back. He ignores the prostitute and the pimp — symbols of distraction and regression. Having endured sustained negativity, his will has matured into determination. This is no longer impulse, but choice.

    Death and Judgement — ego collapse and resurrection ✅

    Carol crashes into Clay’s car, yet they still jump over the river. Clay is rendered unconscious — symbolically dead. When he awakens, he apologizes to Carol, killing the ego that once opposed her. Judgement follows: the old self is assessed and released, and something cleaner emerges.

    The Chariot — purpose and execution, getting driven ✅

    With ego out of the way, clarity returns. Tracey realizes her calculations were wrong and races to correct them. The group moves with focus and unity. No Devil obstructs them now. They act decisively, reinventing the wireless access model that saves the company. The Chariot moves not through force, but through alignment.

    The World — reconnection ✅

    The team works together, fully synchronized. When wireless internet is restored, it symbolically represents reconnection with the world itself. Carol mirroring Clay’s antiques signals integration — opposites brought back into harmony. The system lives again.

    Temperance — returning to life ✅

    At the hospital, the doctor advises taking things slowly. Of course, in a comedy, they don’t. But the message stands: life continues, now tempered by experience. Extremes have been survived, and balance quietly takes their place.

    Seen this way, Office Christmas Party stops being a guilty pleasure and becomes a lesson in collective transformation. It suggests that joy is not the opposite of responsibility, but one of its essential ingredients. That when systems become too rigid to breathe, disruption is not sabotage — it is initiation. The film does not argue for excess as a lifestyle, but for circulation as a necessity. Life, creativity, and connection must move, or they turn against the structures meant to contain them. By allowing chaos to do its work and then integrating what remains, the story quietly affirms an archetypal truth: balance is not achieved by suppressing life, but by learning how to hold it.

    Thanks!

    Ira

  • La La Land (2016): Awesome Until That Devastating Little Nod at the End

    Few modern movies have spoken so directly to the heart as La La Land. Its colors pulse like feeling; its music seems to remember something you once knew and forgot. For two hours Damien Chazelle leads us through a cinematic love affair between art and life, showing how creativity itself becomes a form of devotion. He even captures, in small moments, the difference between authenticity and performance. The dinner scene proves it: when Mia suddenly bolts from the table, unable to endure one more minute of polite falseness, the film knows exactly what spiritual suffocation looks like. It understands that real life begins the moment illusion cracks.

    During most of the film Chazelle seems almost clairvoyant about the heart. His storytelling, his use of silence, even the way the camera dances—all suggest a director who knows that love and presence are the same thing. Viewers and critics agreed: the film was radiant, unforgettable. And yet, after the applause faded, many left the theater uneasy. Something didn’t fit. The story felt whole and broken at once.

    The ache beneath the applause

    Some critics called the ending “profoundly bittersweet.” Others said the separation between Mia and Sebastian made the story more mature. But beneath those words was a quieter recognition: the film spends two hours building a temple to love and then seals it shut. It begins as revelation and ends as resignation.

    Up to the club sequence, everything points toward transcendence. Sebastian’s final song is an apology, not in words but in music—a spiritual act that rewrites the past. As he plays, time collapses; what seemed broken becomes whole. We watch their shared story reborn in sound, guilt dissolving into grace. This isn’t nostalgia—it’s alchemy. Through art, the past is redeemed. For those minutes the film reaches the realm that A Course in Miracles calls the miracle: a shift from fear to love, from illusion to recognition.

    The nod that closes the door

    Then, just as light floods the room, Chazelle lets the ego take the final frame. Sebastian nods. A small, polite motion, meant to suggest acceptance. But spiritually it’s a re-separation. The song had opened the door for love to return; the nod quietly shuts it.

    From the ego’s viewpoint, this looks like wisdom—graceful closure, grown-up composure. But the Course would call it the ego’s last defense: the wish to make unity manageable. The nod says, we were one, we tried, we failed, and that’s fine. It reaffirms time, guilt, and difference—the very illusions the music had just erased. It tells us that love can be mastered by detachment, that moving on is evolution. In truth, it’s emotional amnesia. We don’t outgrow love; nor would we ever want to. But we can forget it.

    In a culture that worships “closure,” this gesture becomes a social sacrament. It reassures us that tidiness equals peace. Yet every heart in the audience feels the lie. The vibration that filled the film collapses. What should have been recognition becomes retreat.

    The ending that would have kept the music alive

    Imagine that final moment without the nod. No resolution, no performance—just breath. Their eyes meet, and something wordless passes between them: not forgiveness, because nothing real needed forgiving, but remembrance. The awareness that success and separation changed nothing; that the love which inspired their art never left. The miracle would have remained intact.

    In that version the story ends, but love doesn’t. The viewer leaves not with nostalgia but with presence—a quiet knowing that what once awakened you still moves beneath everything. The characters would walk away, yet the music would continue, vibrating through the audience like a living truth.

    The spiritual lesson the film didn’t realize it taught

    Chazelle’s near-genius lies in how close he came. He understood the split between authenticity and illusion, and he filmed the very moment of awakening. But at the edge of transcendence he chose the safer story: closure instead of continuation. The ego won by a nod.

    There are no closures in life—only the measure of how open we remain. Love and success were never enemies; the film’s first half already proved it. The problem was never their ambition, only their forgetting. From the higher view there is no new door to open, no second heart to offer. There is only one door, one heart, one love. When we close it, nothing ends; the light merely dims until we remember to open it again.

    One Heart, One Light

    If that final gesture had resembled recognition instead of restraint, the film’s contradiction would have healed itself. The club would no longer stand as a museum of loss but as a small temple of truth — a place where two souls briefly meet in the quiet knowing that nothing real can ever be broken. The dream sequence would cease to be a fantasy of what might have been and become a mirror of what is: love continuing, transformed yet undiminished.

    We do not evolve by sealing the heart. We evolve by allowing it to grow wide enough to hold more than it ever knew how to hold before.

    Thanks!

    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

  • Passengers (2016): Let’s Properly Address That Unbelievable Cosmic Coincidence

    There’s something undeniably captivating about Passengers. On the surface, it’s a sleek and beautiful sci-fi romance: two lonely souls wake too early on a luxury starliner gliding through space, and in their isolation, they find each other. Chris Pratt and Jennifer Lawrence deliver performances that carry the emotional weight of their bizarre situation, and the visual design — from the ship’s luxurious interiors to the vastness of space outside — is nothing short of gorgeous.

    But beneath its high-gloss exterior, the film contains a potent idea that never fully ripens: the question of fate, coincidence, and the possible existence of unseen forces guiding us. What begins as an emotionally thorny premise — a man wakes a woman from hibernation without her consent — ends in mechanical redemption, with both characters surviving a catastrophic systems failure and seemingly finding happiness. The plot twists in just such a way that the audience is meant to forgive Jim… because, well, the ship needed two people to survive. If he hadn’t woken her, everyone would’ve died. Crisis averted, conflict resolved.

    But this moral resolution feels too convenient. The real question lingers in the background, unresolved: Was all of this just a coincidence? Or was there something more at work?

    Cosmic Coincidence Addressed

    Imagine a version of Passengers where this question isn’t avoided — but embraced.

    In this version, Jim wakes up alone… but he’s not without company. The Avalon is pristine, fully operational, and eerily quiet. As the days pass and the novelty wears off, Jim begins to notice oddities:

    • The Apple Tree: In the ship’s virtual garden, the apple tree drops a single apple every morning at precisely 8:17 AM. Jim sets his watch to it out of boredom — until one day, it drops at 8:15 instead. A small glitch? Or a nudge?
    • A Message on the Terminal: While browsing the ship’s entertainment files, Jim stumbles on an audio snippet in the meditation library. The voice says, “Sometimes the universe sends us help before we even ask.” He searches for it again later, but the file is gone.
    • Redundant Warnings: The maintenance robot alerts him twice about a non-existent filter leak — always near Aurora’s sleep pod. Jim checks and finds nothing wrong. But why does the ship keep bringing him here?
    • The Power Surge: In the mess hall, the lights flicker — once, then again, but only when Jim walks near a particular table. Underneath, he discovers a dislodged circuit. He fixes it. Days later, the same thing happens again… in a more critical system.

    He begins to piece it together. Maybe it’s intuition. Maybe it’s desperation. But maybe… it’s a calling. What if the ship isn’t designed to last 90 years unattended? What if his waking up was the first domino — and unless he acts, the rest will fall?

    Eventually, his path leads him to Aurora. He reads her profile. Watches her interview. Learns that she’s a writer — someone who believes in the power of narrative. Someone who might understand. And after one final vision — a dream in which the ship burns and her pod is surrounded by flames — Jim makes his choice.

    He wakes her.

    The Moral Dilemma and the Emotional Fallout

    Aurora’s reaction doesn’t change. She falls in love with Jim, then learns the truth, and is devastated. But this time, Jim has more than guilt — he has evidence. He shows her the clues. The logs. The failing systems. The abnormal behaviors of the ship. He doesn’t ask for forgiveness. He only asks her to look.

    When the critical failure finally occurs — perhaps a slow decompression in a core module, followed by a cascading power drain — it’s Aurora who saves the day. Her creativity, her ability to see patterns and possibilities, becomes the missing piece. And afterward, as they repair the ship, something shifts between them. Not just forgiveness. Faith.

    A New Philosophy for a New Life

    Over the years, Jim and Aurora embrace the idea that they weren’t just victims of chance. That the universe speaks, not with words, but with nudges. Patterns. Intuition. That sometimes, when we feel inexplicably drawn to someone or something… we’re meant to follow.

    They begin leaving notes around the ship. Quotes etched into the walls. Messages for those who will come after:

    “The universe always takes care of us.”
    “There are no coincidences — only calls to action.”
    “Follow the signs. Trust your heart.”

    When the rest of the passengers finally awaken, they step into a transformed ship. A garden now fully grown. Handmade journals in the library titled The Quiet Philosophy. A hologram of Aurora smiling, quoting her final book:

    “If life speaks in whispers, we must learn to listen. That’s how we find each other in the dark.”

    In this version, Passengers transcends its central ethical dilemma and becomes a story about listening — to the heart, to the universe, to each other. The moral ambiguity remains, but it’s reframed as part of a grander theme: sometimes, the right path isn’t clear until we walk it. And sometimes, love isn’t a coincidence — it’s a message.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Ghostbusters (2016): Empowered from Start to Finish? Not in my Book

    In 2016, Sony rebooted one of the most beloved supernatural comedies of all time—Ghostbusters. With a new all-female cast, a modern setting, and a substantial budget, the film was set up to be a bold, empowering reimagining. But despite the pedigree and intentions, the movie didn’t deliver. It underperformed at the box office and left many viewers wondering why it felt so hollow.

    The short answer? It skipped the emotional journey that made the original so memorable—and in the process, it made its characters strangely untouchable, unaffected, and, worst of all… unrelatable.

    Fear Is the Start of Every Ghost Story

    To its credit, the movie opens with a solid ghost scene: a tour guide is alone in a creepy mansion, and things escalate in a classically spooky way. It feels promising—until the three lead characters show up.

    Here’s where the tonal whiplash hits. One character calmly films the scene, another casually munches chips, and none of them even flinch when the ghost appears and vomits slime. There’s no fear. No screaming. No retreat. No “What the hell is that?!”

    And if they’re not scared… then where is the arc? A ghost story isn’t about laser beams and wisecracks—it’s about fear, confusion, the unknown. If the characters aren’t shaken at the start, how can they ever overcome anything? There’s no growth, no courage earned.

    It feels like the filmmakers were so focused on showcasing confident, capable women that they skipped the journey that would make those traits meaningful. Strength doesn’t mean much if you never had to be vulnerable.

    Just imagine how much more powerful the story would’ve been if one of them had panicked and wanted to call in help—maybe a buff gym buddy or someone from the fire department—only to be snapped out of it:

    “You wanna live in fear forever? No. This is our fight.”

    That’s the kind of earned strength that sticks with an audience.

    What Are the Rules of These Ghosts, Anyway?

    Another major problem is the confusing supernatural logic. Is the ghost phenomenon caused by haunted places? Is it about a network of laylines? Is the villain a necromancer? A science freak? A ghost himself?

    The movie throws out multiple ideas but never grounds any of them. Ghosts appear because the plot needs them to—not because they obey any coherent in-world logic. There’s no pattern, no limits, no cost.

    And it all comes to a head in the finale, when the villain transforms into a giant glowing version of the Ghostbusters logo… just because. In the original Ghostbusters, the climactic monster—a giant Stay Puft Marshmallow Man—was ridiculous but brilliantly motivated. It emerged from the characters’ own subconscious fears. It made psychological sense.

    Here, the final form is just big and shiny and… loud. The scale increases, but the stakes stay flat.

    And here’s a thought experiment: what if the Ghostbusters had to do something wildly different to disperse the ghosts—not just zap them with overcharged gadgets, but actually approach them, connect with them… and tickle them? Literally. Imagine that the only way to disperse a ghost was to make it laugh—requiring the characters to come closer to the danger, not further away, using bravery and motherly warmth instead of firepower. It would turn a typical power fantasy into something much deeper: a story about emotional courage, about meeting fear with compassion, and rewriting what it means to be strong. That kind of originality could have set this reboot apart in all the right ways.

    Comedy Over Character

    The 2016 reboot leans heavily on improv-style humor—lots of banter, off-the-cuff remarks, and throwaway gags. But what it lacks is depth. The characters don’t have arcs. They’re quirky from start to finish. They don’t evolve, fracture, fail, or grow closer in any meaningful way.

    In the original film, we saw Venkman as a skeptic, Ray as a believer, Egon as the cold intellect, and Winston as the relatable outsider. Their dynamic created tension and momentum. In contrast, the reboot’s crew feels like they’re on the same wavelength from the start. There’s no push and pull.

    Even when things go wrong, they don’t really react. There’s no sense of loss. No moment where anyone truly doubts themselves or the mission. And without that reckoning, their victory doesn’t feel like a payoff—it just feels inevitable.

    Some finishing thoughts

    At its heart, a Ghostbusters story should reflect our internal fears as much as it entertains with external ones. Ghosts aren’t just obstacles—they’re metaphors. They should frighten us because they show us something buried, something repressed. In 1984, it was nuclear anxiety, New York cynicism, and spiritual unease. In 2016? It’s hard to say.

    If this reboot had allowed its characters to start scared and slowly build courage—if the ghosts represented their internal doubts, fears, or traumas—it could’ve made for a profound ride. Instead, we got jokes, gadgets, and a glowing boss fight. Flashy, but forgettable.

    The intentions were noble. But storytelling doesn’t work on good intentions alone.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Collateral Beauty (2016): Needed Some Polishing, Reordering — and a New Title!

    Collateral Beauty had all the ingredients for something soulful and piercing. A grieving father, letters to Love, Time, and Death, and a city coated in winter melancholy. And yet, it squandered its emotional capital by twisting its own premise into something manipulative, inconsistent, and unearned. It turned pain into a riddle, healing into deception, and characters into ciphers. But it didn’t have to.

    We imagined a version of the story where the beauty wasn’t collateral — it was intentional. And real.

    The Alternative Outline

    Everything begins the same. Howard (Will Smith) is crushed by the loss of his daughter. Withdrawn and silent, he spends his days alone, writing three letters to the universe: one to Love, one to Time, and one to Death. His friends, desperate to both help him and save their company, hire a trio of actors to impersonate those concepts. The goal? Confront him with his grief. Jolt him back to life. And, if necessary, use the interactions to convince the board that Howard is no longer fit to vote.

    But this time, they go right throught with the plan. They don’t admit anything, nor do they apologise. The board sees the doctored footage. He’s removed. The friends feel justified. At least in the beginning. Because sooner or later, the reckoning will begin.

    In the days after the meeting, it would be better time for each of Howard’s friends to begin encountering the actors again. They seem to appear randomly. And when they spoke, they might reveal things they couldn’t possibly know. Love tells Whit exactly what he’s avoiding with his daughter. Time lectures Claire about the years she’s wasting. Death corners Simon and stares through him, knowing too much about his illness.

    The friends begin to spiral. They whisper to each other in paranoia. Did we really hire these people? Did we give them those lines? Are we losing our minds?

    Meanwhile, Howard is growing close to a woman he’s met in a grief group: Madeline. In reality, that’s his ex wife, but the original script portrayes them as total strangers. In the reimagined version, we would portray them exactly as they are. Two people who just don’t want to talk about their past. So the audience would slowly begin begin to sense something deeper simmering beneath their measured conversations.

    When the guilt finally overwhelms the conspirators, they approach Howard. They tell him the truth. That they deceived him. That they watched him unravel on camera. That they believe the actors may not have been actors at all — and that the whole thing might’ve been divine.

    One of them even says, “We know how you feel now.”

    Howard doesn’t explode. He just says:

    “I wasn’t losing my mind. I knew they were actors. I saw Love with Whit. I figured it out. I just didn’t care. I needed the time.”

    His friends fall silent. Everything they thought they orchestrated had actually unfolded around them. They weren’t pulling the strings — they were being unraveled by them.

    The actors, they don’t vanish mysteriously — they’re exactly who they appear to be: performers hired to play Love, Time, and Death. But after learning about the conspiracy, they decided to go off-script and teach Howard’s friends a lesson of their own. There’s no divine ambiguity here. They weren’t angels — they were people. People who saw how far things had fallen and used their roles to provoke real change.

    But then comes the real twist. Howard opens up about Madeline, who’d be standing right next to him. About their daughter. About how the grief tore them apart. About how they agreed never to speak of her, because it was the only way they could be in the same room again.

    “She’s not a stranger,” he says. “She’s her mother.”

    That’s when the audience realizes the depth of what they’ve seen — the love disguised as patience, the sorrow hidden behind polite conversation. There was no memory gap. No amnesia. Just unbearable pain, and two people finding their way back to one another by pretending not to know what they could never forget.

    In this version, we changed the title — Collateral Beauty always felt a bit oxymoronic, a poetic phrase that masked an emotionally clumsy structure. Instead, we call it The Three Letters: a story not about tricks, but truths.

    The movie already had everything it needed — great actors, a powerful theme, a touching premise. It just needed some polishing, some emotional honesty, and a careful reordering of events to let its heart shine through.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Legend of Tarzan (2016) – When the Hero’s Too Perfect, Make the Story About Someone Else

    When The Legend of Tarzan swung into theaters in 2016, it arrived with all the trappings of a modern blockbuster revival: lush visuals, a brooding Alexander Skarsgård, a steely Margot Robbie, and Christoph Waltz bringing his usual brand of quiet menace. The premise was ambitious—a post-origin story that returns Tarzan to the Congo, this time as a civilized man confronted by his past. And while the film was watchable, particularly in its action set-pieces and jungle acrobatics, it ultimately failed to leave a lasting impression.

    Part of the problem lies in its structural ambition. Rather than retelling the classic story, it assumes we already care deeply about Tarzan’s journey. But for many in the audience, especially newcomers, the emotional investment just isn’t there. Tarzan is presented as a fully-formed, already-accomplished man. He has returned to London, adapted to high society, married Jane, and earned the love and obedience of the jungle. He is legend incarnate—but therein lies the issue.

    Few of us can relate to growing up among gorillas. Fewer still can relate to swinging through the treetops or commanding lions and elephants with a whisper. Tarzan, as portrayed here, is a distant figure. He’s too complete, too untouchable. His struggles are behind him, his myth already cemented. The audience isn’t invited to grow with him—only to watch him. And that, fundamentally, makes him emotionally inaccessible.

    This is where the story missed a real opportunity: it should have decentered Tarzan.

    The Alternate Outline

    Imagine instead a version where the lead character is not Tarzan himself, but George Washington Williams—the fast-talking, morally ambiguous companion played by Samuel L. Jackson. In this version, George isn’t just comic relief or an audience stand-in. He is the protagonist, and his arc drives the emotional core of the film.

    The story would begin in familiar territory: George visits John Clayton (Tarzan) in London, claiming to need his help investigating rumors of slavery in the Congo. Moved by the cause, and by Jane’s support, Tarzan reluctantly agrees to return. But the truth is darker: George has a hidden agenda. He’s heard whispers of a vast diamond trove hidden deep in tribal land—diamonds guarded fiercely by locals who still revere (or fear) the legend of Tarzan.

    George sees an opportunity: manipulate the legend, get Tarzan to open doors, and walk away rich. It’s not personal—just business. But as they journey deeper into the jungle, nothing goes as planned. Tarzan senses something is off. Jane grows suspicious. And eventually, the lie unravels.

    Meanwhile, Christoph Waltz’s Leon Rom is still in play—a brutal colonial enforcer with his own designs on the diamonds. But this time, he serves a different role: he becomes George’s shadow self. Where George is a man flirting with moral compromise, Rom is the full descent—the greed, cruelty, and exploitation taken to its logical end. He’s what George could become if he keeps walking that path.

    When Rom captures George and begins his violent march toward the sacred mines, George finally sees the horror of what he set in motion. He escapes, broken and remorseful, and returns not to take, but to atone. He finds Tarzan, confesses everything, and helps lead a rebellion against Rom. Not with brute strength—that’s Tarzan’s role—but through cleverness, courage, and personal sacrifice.

    In the final moments, George gets his chance for redemption. He fights alongside Tarzan, helps free the tribes, and watches as Rom is destroyed by the very greed he embodied. And maybe—just maybe—George walks away with a single diamond in his pocket. A quiet reward. A wink. A reminder that even the redeemed carry pieces of their past.

    This reimagined structure does more than shuffle screen time. It reframes the entire emotional experience. George is relatable: flawed, driven, human. His lies, mistakes, and eventual transformation are things we can connect with. Tarzan, in this version, becomes a powerful presence—mythic, larger-than-life, a force of nature—but not the lens through which we experience the story.

    And that shift makes all the difference. It turns a distant legend into an inclusive journey. A jungle epic not about brute strength, but about the fight for redemption. About the danger of exploiting myth—and the power of earning forgiveness. It’s still Tarzan’s world. But this time, we get to walk through it as humans.

    Thanks!

    Ira

  • Warcraft (2016): Fans Loved It, Critics Hated It—Who Shall We Trust More?

    After careful consideration, the critics.

    The 2016 Warcraft movie was a long-awaited cinematic dive into the high-fantasy universe of Azeroth, beloved by millions of gamers and lore fans. While the film boasted stunning visuals, richly detailed worldbuilding, and an authentic atmosphere that clearly had passion behind it, its storytelling fell tragically short. The narrative was not only overstuffed, but also unbalanced, and failed to offer newcomers a coherent entry point or longtime fans a story with emotional weight.

    The filmmakers clearly poured their creative focus into the world itself. The orcs were rendered with great care—powerful, expressive, and noble in appearance. The kingdoms of men looked lived-in and appropriately medieval-fantasy. Magic looked gorgeous and intimidating. But where it soared visually, it stumbled narratively.

    From the beginning, the film dropped us in the middle of a full-scale invasion of Azeroth by the orcs, with the dark magic of the Fel already in full swing. As someone familiar with the games and lore, I still struggled to keep pace with the exposition. For newcomers, it must have been disorienting. The pacing was relentless at times and aimless at others. There were too many main characters, each more or less underdeveloped, and none clearly designated as the emotional center of the story. Even promising characters like Khadgar, who had the potential to carry a coming-of-age arc, were undermined by a crowded narrative.

    A major pain point was the handling of Medivh. The Guardian, a powerful mage meant to protect Azeroth, is revealed to be corrupted by the Fel—but this comes across more like a last-minute twist than a carefully foreshadowed character arc. His betrayal feels sudden, and his motivations unclear. This reveal should have been tragic, not confusing.

    Structurally, the film feels like the middle chapter of a trilogy we never got. There was no gradual buildup to the Fel, no real explanation of its origin, no insight into Draenor’s slow death. The story simply begins after the catastrophe has already taken place, throwing the audience into a state of reaction instead of discovery. It bypasses the most fertile dramatic ground: the slow corruption, the moral conflict, and the tragedy of how things came to be.

    So what would a better outline of this story look like?

    The alternate timeline we propose starts much earlier—before the portal, before the war, and before the Fel has fully taken root. We begin on Draenor, not in battle, but in conversation. A handful of orcs wander the fading wilderness of their world, speaking in hushed tones about a new magic—green, glowing, corruptive. They’ve seen it destroy flora, twist animals, and rot clans from within. There is unease, skepticism, even fear. These orcs are noble and complex, not invaders, but people trying to survive.

    Then, somewhere on the horizon, a rift opens: a small, unstable magical tear. A portal. Not a giant, world-shaking gate—just a momentary shimmer in the fabric of reality. One orc scout steps through.

    On the other side: chaos. Human villagers flee at the sight of the hulking stranger. Soldiers rally. Horns blow. And as the camera pulls back, we see the title: WARCRAFT.

    From there, we follow a clear protagonist: a young lieutenant in the human military. He’s not a chosen one, not a mage, not a royal—just a patrol officer with a modest command. His initial encounter with the lone orc scout is disastrous. Men die. The creature escapes. He’s blamed. But instead of backing down, he starts to dig deeper. Who is this enemy? Where did he come from? Why didn’t he kill more?

    This slow-burn mystery unfolds with real stakes. The Fel is not everywhere yet—it’s emerging. Khadgar and other mages are in the story, but they take a back seat. The lieutenant is the audience’s lens: skeptical of magic, grounded in human concerns, and emotionally open. When things escalate, he seeks the help of Medivh, the Guardian.

    At first, they cooperate. Medivh appears wise, aloof, powerful. But something is off. He spaces out. He says strange things. He speaks of fate and inevitability in a way that unnerves the lieutenant. Eventually, during a moment of desperation, the lieutenant tries to force Medivh into action—perhaps even threatens him. This creates a sharp fallout. Medivh lashes out. Their alliance breaks.

    From here, the bulk of the movie unfolds. Medivh, increasingly isolated and consumed by Fel magic, opens the great portal—allowing the orc invasion to begin in full. The war comes crashing into Azeroth. Battles erupt across human settlements. Chaos reigns. The lieutenant, now caught in the heart of a war he tried to prevent, must regroup and rally what forces he can.

    Despite everything, he seeks Medivh out again—this time not as a soldier giving orders, but as someone who’s seen the cost of mistrust. During their tense and emotional conflict, the lieutenant unexpectedly apologizes. He admits fault for the fallout between them, owning his arrogance and lack of understanding. That moment of humility breaks through Medivh’s mental chains just enough to ease the Fel’s grip. The Guardian, with his fading will restored, turns his power against the very portal he created.

    With the lieutenant’s help, Medivh manages to halt the Fel’s spread—buying time for humanity to regroup. It is not a perfect victory, but a desperately earned one. The Guardian dies in the process, redeemed in his final act. The lieutenant, once a nameless officer, emerges as a true leader—not because of destiny or magic, but because he was willing to grow, listen, and act.

    This revised story doesn’t abandon the world of Warcraft. It embraces it more fully. By slowing down and focusing on one central perspective, we can weave in the grand lore, the mages, the orcs, the magic, and the politics—but all through the eyes of someone we care about. Someone who can fail, change, and ultimately shape the fate of both worlds.

    This is what the original movie lacked: emotional clarity, narrative patience, and a protagonist who earns the title of hero. With this structure, the war is not just a spectacle—it’s a tragedy, a mystery, and a test of character. It’s Warcraft, finally done right.

    Thank you!

    Ira

  • Gods of Egypt (2016): An Epic Missrepresentation of The Egyptian Lore And Nothing Else

    As a long-time admirer of Egyptian rendition of the Major Arcana, and indeed, all the profound mystery woven into ancient Egyptian culture and its monumental legacy, I approached Alex Proyas’s 2016 epic fantasy, Gods of Egypt, with a significant degree of excitement. The title alone promised a deep dive into the very mythology I cherished. What unfolded, however, was nothing short of a head-turning slap in the face. And I’m not even talking about what is undeniably one of the worst casting choices in modern cinema. Frankly, I felt like each and every element of the movie was a direct insult to my intelligence, beginning, of course, with that egregious opening exposition dump—a narrative crutch that critics such as myself literally can’t stand.

    Beyond its immediate visual and hearing offense, the film was infested with plot holes. To name the most jarring, for example: the gods were anthropomorphized to such an extent that they could be stabbed and killed, yet they still condescendingly referred to humans as “mortals.” Osiris, a mighty god and Ra’s own son, is quickly dispatched by Set early in the film, following the basic outline of the myth. But then, in the movie’s cheesy finale, Ra, who had previously been too busy dragging the sun around the Earth, casually takes time off to resurrect one human from death. This raises an obvious question: if such an act of resurrection was within his power, why didn’t Ra intervene earlier to save his own son Osiris, or prevent the excruciating removal of Horus’s eyes? The inconsistency wasn’t just illogical; it diminished any sense of genuine stakes the film desperately tried to establish.

    After some consideration, it became obvious that the very way they decided to frame this story was destined to flop all along. Stories, if they are crafted with any depth and insight, are never truly about gods in their ultimate, unchanging forms. True narratives are about flawed humans with free will who make dubious decisions, consequently fall from grace, and then gather themselves up again. They stumble after fall, attempt to manipulate their new reality to their will only to fail some more, and at some point, are forced to trust a higher power—their higher self, their soul, god, or love, if you will. This arc, characterized by ego transcendence and profound personal transformation, is what resonates with an audience. But how, one must ask, would such a character arc possibly play out for someone who is already at “god status,” inherently powerful and ostensibly flawless? The bottom line is, Horus’s character, despite his journey to reclaim the throne, was flat from beginning to end precisely because he was already a god, robbing him of any meaningful internal struggle.

    We are, then, left with Bek, the mortal, who did at least portray some recognizable human properties such as doubts and fears. This would have been the perfect character to work with, a relatable entry point into a fantastical world. But lo and behold, they portrayed him as inexplicably smart and agile from the very beginning, making his potential for development a moot point from there on. His primary motivation, to save his dead girlfriend from the underworld, was presented as a grand quest for which he realistically had no means to even attempt, let alone fail. And the ultimate betrayal of his potential arc? At the very end, it was not even he who contacted Ra and prayed to save Zaya, which would have been the obvious, powerful conclusion to his journey and an act of earned faith. Instead, the resurrection prayer was performed in his name by Horus, with Ra saving the girl in an act that completely destroyed any remaining logic or stakes in the script, as mentioned earlier.

    Because of such fundamental flaws, I firmly believe Gods of Egypt stands as one of the worst movies I’ve ever had the privilege to see. It was a squandered opportunity, and it would have been a million times better to approach the subject matter differently.

    Rather make it about Egyptian priesthood

    They should never have made a movie with gods routinely taking human form, or at least not in the leading, physically battling roles, which should be reserved for mortals. This would preserve the mystery and awe of the divine, with gods appearing as largely unseen forces whose interventions manifest as natural phenomena or through symbolic visions.

    Imagine an outline where the story follows a young Egyptian, perhaps a farmer named Khepri, initially steeped in the mundane routine and boredom of his daily life. His spirit stirs with inspiration as he observes Neserine, a priestess of Hathor, whose serene devotion and meticulous ritual observance infuse her movements with a profound, quiet grace.

    When his fields face an unprecedented drought, a cruel manifestation of Set’s chaos, Khepri’s pragmatic, “naive ways” to combat it fail, leading to significant loss – a profound falling from grace if you will. Desperate, he begins turning to the priesthood, observing their solemn prayers to Osiris for the Nile’s return, and to Ra for benevolent sun. The rain, when it finally comes, is a mysterious, awe-inspiring manifestation of divine favor channeled through their unwavering devotion, allowing Khepri a moment of atonement for his previous skepticism. Later, navigating the complexities of human connection, Khepri finds himself troubled by love, his overtures “corny” and clumsy. The priesthood, perhaps an elder priestess or a wise scribe, guides him to the subtle teachings of Hathor and Isis, emphasizing inner qualities and patience. This moment of suspension of action for his worldly desires forces Khepri to truly listen. The same way we could weave into the story other gods as well. Through these trials, he achieves transcendence, shedding his ego and finding a deeper understanding of the divine teachings and the gods’ presence, not as physical beings, but as the very fabric of existence. His ultimate “resurrection” is the rebirth into his higher self, a man now deeply aligned with his land and its spiritual rhythms, his own arc mirroring the enduring renewal of the Nile and the triumph of Horus over chaos. While receiving the kiss from the goddess Neserine ofcourse. This approach, where human experience mirrors divine myth without cheapening it through literalism, would allow the awe, the spiritual weight, and the profound human struggle within the context of Egyptian mythology to truly shine, leaving the audience with something far more meaningful than empty spectacle for the insatiable eyes.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (2016) – The Magic of The Story Lies in the Muggle + Re-Envisioning

    Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them burst onto screens in 2016, promising a thrilling expansion of the beloved Wizarding World. It introduced a vibrant new setting in 1920s magical America, complete with dazzling spellwork, enchanting creatures, and truly awesome visuals that transported audiences to a bygone era. Yet, despite its undeniable charm and spectacle, something felt a little off for many viewers, a narrative untidiness that prevented it from soaring as high as it could have.

    The Original Story’s Stumbles

    Perhaps the film’s greatest strength, ironically, highlighted some of its most significant weaknesses: the inclusion of Jacob Kowalski, the bewildered No-Maj baker. Dragging this ordinary man through the extraordinary wizarding world was a masterstroke, grounding the fantastical elements and providing an audience surrogate who reacted with genuine awe, fear, and humor. Jacob quickly became the heart of the movie, our primary connection to the sheer wonder and terror of magic. But this very strength inadvertently cast a spotlight on areas where the film’s narrative faltered.

    For one, the central plot of chasing escaped magical creatures across Manhattan, while delightful and visually inventive, often felt like a distraction from the larger, darker, and ultimately more crucial story unfolding. While delightful, these capers often pulled focus from the insidious rise of Gellert Grindelwald and the terrifying emergence of the Obscurus. The sheer spectacle of magic, much like in the later Harry Potter films, at times seemed to overshadow deeper character work. Newt Scamander himself, the supposed protagonist, largely lacked a compelling internal journey. He remained flat, his initial awkwardness and creature-loving nature consistent throughout. His sudden, almost unearned shift into an action hero, bravely facing down danger in the climax, felt far-fetched, devoid of the emotional buildup that makes such moments truly impactful. This disconnect was particularly jarring given that he often faced these crucial confrontations without his iconic suitcase, the very core of his character and the film’s title, making his actions feel inconsistent with his established reliance on his fantastic beasts.

    The concept of the Obscurus, a dark force born from a child repressing their magic, was undeniably brilliant – a poignant metaphor for abuse and psychological torment. Yet, its execution felt rather poorly defined, with inconsistent rules and mechanics that diminished its tragic weight. Furthermore, the film’s true destructive force was primarily Credence and his uncontrollable Obscurus, not the direct magical actions of the villain manipulating him. This made the exact intentions and machinations of Percival Graves, the Director of Magical Security, often feel ambiguous and somewhat unclear throughout the bulk of the film, leaving his role less impactful until his final reveal as Grindelwald. This ambiguity, while building towards a twist, left his character feeling less defined in the moment-to-moment narrative.

    An Alternative with a Muggle in the Lead

    Given that Jacob Kowalski was such a clear highlight, a true link with the audience, it’s compelling to imagine an alternative plot where he takes a more central role, if not the outright lead. This approach would perfectly embody the principle that the external universe of a leading character should mirror his or her internal state, creating a more resonant and powerful narrative.

    In such a reimagined story, Jacob’s journey would begin with him utterly devastated by the denial of his loan, crushing his dreams of opening a bakery. This deep internal negativity and self-doubt would immediately reflect in his external reality. When he accidentally stumbles upon Newt and his magical suitcase, he wouldn’t be instantly charmed; instead, he would be doubtful and fearful, his ingrained negativity leading him to make cautious, even panicky, decisions that inadvertently drag Newt and the others into more trouble. Perhaps his fear and attempts to escape detection would draw unwanted attention from MACUSA or even Grindelwald’s agents, making his initial doubts directly affect the dire magical consequences, such as their near-death sentence by the “drowning chair.” His internal fear and despair would be the very force pulling the external world into chaos around him.

    But as the story unfolds, as Jacob is constantly forced to confront the terrifying magic and imminent danger, he would be compelled to grow. Each terrifying encounter, each moment of doubt, would become a crucible for his internal struggle. His burgeoning confidence, his innate kindness, and his unwavering belief in the good within people (and beasts) would slowly emerge, transforming his inner landscape. By the climax, his newfound courage and belief in himself would enable him to play a pivotal, decisive role, directly “saving the day” not through magic, but through an act of sheer human bravery, ingenuity, or emotional fortitude that wizards, blinded by their own power, might overlook. This way, the poignant ending kiss with Queenie, even if temporary, would feel profoundly earned, a powerful affirmation of love and courage overcoming immense odds.

    Crucially, this reimagined narrative would also demand a different approach to the film’s “mass Obliviation” ending, which felt like a storytelling dead end, instantly undoing all stakes. Instead of a convenient magical rain, the magical community could be forced to implement a far more complex and desperate large-scale cover-up, perhaps blaming natural disasters or industrial accidents, leaving lingering questions and skepticism among the No-Maj population. Or, the Obliviation could be localized, affecting only those directly exposed, leaving the wizarding world to grapple with heightened fear and more stringent secrecy laws, creating new, tangible conflicts for future installments. Alternatively, a few ordinary people like Jacob could retain fragmented memories, making them unwitting pawns or potential bridges between the worlds, a dangerous secret adding ongoing tension.

    Ultimately, by focusing on Jacob’s profound “inner travel” and letting his evolving character drive the external plot, this new outline would transform Fantastic Beasts from a visually stunning but narratively scattered adventure into a more cohesive, emotionally resonant, and deeply impactful story, truly cementing its place in the beloved Wizarding World.

    Thanks for stopping by!

    Ira