Arcaneya

Tag: 2017

  • The Dark Tower (2017): Dark Keeping Dark Away? Not in This Reimagining.

    When The Dark Tower hit theaters in 2017, it carried the weight of eight novels’ worth of myth and meaning — Stephen King’s life’s work distilled into a ninety-five–minute movie. It was supposed to be the bridge between worlds: fantasy, western, metaphysics, and myth. Instead, it arrived as something strangely hollow, a cinematic skeleton that bore the names of King’s characters but none of their souls. For readers who had spent decades following Roland Deschain’s odyssey toward the Tower, the film felt less like an adaptation than a souvenir from a journey no one took.

    The Hollow Shell of a Saga

    Its downfall wasn’t just that it was short. It was that it was empty. The story unfolded like a highlight reel: a psychic boy, a weary gunslinger, an evil sorcerer, and a tower that somehow “keeps the darkness out.” Yet nothing within those phrases was ever shown or felt. The film sprinted across worlds without ever stopping to breathe — and without breath, there can be no life. The pacing was so jagged that emotional connection never had a chance to take root. Jake, our supposed protagonist, never made a choice of his own. Roland, the last gunslinger, never mourned long enough to earn our respect. And Walter, the Man in Black, might as well have wandered in from another genre entirely, flicking his fingers and muttering curses that evaporated like smoke.

    King’s Myth Reduced to a Montage

    The tragedy is that King’s original Dark Tower saga is the opposite of this. The books are patient, mournful, cyclical — a meditation on obsession, redemption, and the cost of endless pursuit. Roland’s journey is spiritual exhaustion made myth. To see that reduced to a ninety-five–minute action movie was to watch a cathedral of meaning collapsed into a gun range. At least, one would think, they could have let it breathe for two hours, as all proper fantasy epics do. Instead, The Dark Tower moves as if terrified of stillness, cutting away from every moment that could have mattered. By the end, it resembles someone’s teenage wet dream of supernatural duels — half Matrix, half power fantasy — where bullets curve, minds shatter walls, and none of it means anything.

    The Tower’s Logic That Never Was

    Even the logic crumbles. Why would Walter, a being of godlike magic, need children’s minds to destroy the Tower? Why release demons at all if he can already kill and command with a whisper? And above all, how can the “Dark Tower” keep darkness away? A tower that restrains shadow should radiate light. It should be white. The moment you realize that, the entire foundation of the movie collapses. A dark tower cannot guard against darkness — it can only hoard the light. That’s the inversion the film never dared to consider.

    When the Tower Keeps the Light Away

    So in our reimagined version, we leave the Tower dark — but change everything around it. If the Tower is black, it must serve as a veil against the heavens, not a fortress of good. It keeps the celestial light out, allowing lower worlds to drift in twilight while demons and lost souls roam freely. Humanity’s despair isn’t caused by demons attacking; it’s the symptom of light being barred. Across Mid-World, whispers rise that the Tower itself must fall — that it imprisons creation inside shadow.

    The inhabitants prepare for war, believing they fight for freedom. But Walter, the Tower’s warden, knows that if the veil collapses completely, the raw light will burn away individuality. He convinces himself he’s saving reality by keeping the Tower intact, and he enforces it not with light — for that would pierce it — but with dark thought, fear, and guilt. His sorcery isn’t fire or illusion; it’s emotional gravity. He feeds the Tower the thing that holds all creatures captive: their unhealed shame.

    The Boy Who Spoke the Curse

    That is why Jake becomes essential. Walter seeks a source of pure guilt, and Jake Chambers carries it like a brand. When Jake was a child, his parents’ marriage was breaking apart. His mother held on, still believing in reconciliation. His father, exhausted, threatened to leave. In one moment of helpless anger, Jake screamed, “Then go! Go and never come back!” And the words became prophecy. His father drove away that night and died in an accident. From then on, Jake believed that his voice itself could kill. That guilt — small, human, and utterly believable — becomes the anchor point between worlds. It explains why he dreams of a place where light is forbidden, why his drawings resemble a tower built from shadow. His guilt is the Tower’s echo. The two are the same shape.

    The Mirror World

    This single change transforms everything. The Tower’s existence becomes psychologically and spiritually coherent. Mid-World is no longer just an alternate dimension; it’s the externalization of Jake’s inner fracture. Its wars, its demons, its darkness — all mirror his unspoken belief that love leaves forever once driven away. Roland’s world becomes the landscape of guilt itself, and Walter’s obsession with Jake suddenly makes sense: the boy’s unresolved sorrow is the strongest building material the Tower has ever known.

    The Hero’s Journey Restored

    From here, Jake’s story finally earns the right to be called a Hero’s Journey. He isn’t chosen by prophecy but by consequence. He begins by running from his guilt, hiding inside dreams that blur into nightmares. He crosses into Mid-World — not as a savior, but as a boy looking for a way to undo the unforgivable. Alongside Roland, he meets others shaped by the same wound: lovers parted by pride, soldiers haunted by mistakes. Each reflection chips away at his isolation until he realizes that the entire realm is built from everyone’s collective guilt. His personal tragedy was only the loudest frequency in a universal chorus of regret. Walter, feeding on these emotions, grows stronger the more people cling to their blame.

    Forgiveness as the Final Battle

    The climax is not a duel of bullets and magic, but of consciousness. Walter tempts Jake with visions of his father’s final moments, whispers that forgiveness is cowardice — that guilt is the only thing keeping him connected to the man he lost. Jake finally sees through the lie. He understands that clinging to guilt is just another mask of ego, a refusal to accept imperfection. When he forgives himself, the Tower begins to crumble, because its stones were made of the belief that forgiveness was impossible. But he doesn’t stop there. He forgives those who accused him, who whispered, who needed him to remain the villain so they could feel righteous. And as he forgives them, light begins to bleed through the cracks. The Tower loses its power. The dark veil collapses, not in violence, but in radiance.

    The End of the Shadow

    Roland, the eternal gunslinger, witnesses this and finally lays down his weapon. Walter, born of guilt, dissolves with the Tower’s shadow. What remains is silence — the kind of silence that follows true understanding. Jake, who once shouted “Go and never come back,” now whispers the opposite prayer: “Come home.” And light returns.

    Conclusion: A Tower Rebuilt from Meaning

    This is the version of The Dark Tower that could have honored Stephen King’s intent — a story not about endless shooting and spectacle, but about the inner architecture of redemption. It keeps the fantasy vast but roots it in something profoundly human: the courage to face one’s worst moment and meet it with love. The entire cosmology becomes psychologically sound. The pacing would naturally breathe; the emotional stakes would deepen. Every act of forgiveness would reshape the world.

    That, truly, is the foundation upon which the rest of the saga could be built — a myth of forgiveness powerful enough to dismantle the Tower itself.

    Because the greatest story King ever told was never about reaching the Tower.
    It was about realizing it was built inside us all along.

    Thanks!

    Ira

  • Downsizing (2017): How a Great Premise Went Small, and What Could Have Been

    When Downsizing released in 2017, it came packaged as a brilliant high-concept premise: what if you could shrink yourself to five inches tall, live like royalty on a fraction of your old budget, and save the planet in the process? It was a setup ripe for wonder, satire, and visual inventiveness. And yet, instead of reveling in its own conceit, the movie skipped right over the most exciting part — the initial amazement of the small world — and wandered off into an oddly disconnected plot about a disabled Vietnamese activist and a doomsday cult preparing for the end of the world.

    It was an odd choice. Not because those subjects couldn’t work in another film, but because they made Downsizing feel less like an original and more like a second or even third sequel, the kind of thematic detour a franchise might attempt after audiences have already spent a movie or two immersed in the novelty of the concept. What we should have gotten was the obvious first story — the one that lets us live in the small world before tearing it apart.

    What We Never Saw

    Once the characters became small, the movie barely touched the premise at all. Where were the everyday hazards? Imagine weather events that barely rate a headline in the big world — “mildly windy” — becoming hurricane-level chaos for someone only a few inches tall. A boat ride on a pond would be a white-knuckle survival adventure, every ripple a towering wave.

    Insects, too, would be an unavoidable terror. A single wasp could be a life-threatening encounter, ants a creeping army. Small people would need big people for constant protection, leading to a culture of dependency where the large are worshipped like gods — and feared like demons. Anger the wrong “big” and they could crush your car with a flick of a finger.

    Even environmentalism would shift. Without the same pollution impact, litter might be ignored, garbage piling up in public spaces simply because it’s no longer seen as a global hazard. That tiny utopia could very quickly look less than perfect.

    The World Inevitably Mirrors the Old One

    The obvious long-term trajectory for a downsized society is that it would slowly become a mirror of the big world. At first, productivity might plummet — thanks to lower expenses, people could work just two hours a day and still live comfortably. But boredom and capitalism have a way of creeping back in. People would fill their empty hours with new ventures, competition would grow, and before long, many would be working eight hours again, often in jobs they didn’t like, simply because that’s how human systems drift.

    Even the architecture would become impractical. Huge mansions — cheap to build in this scale — would prove isolating and hard to maintain. Neighborhoods would empty as people moved into smaller, closer-knit communities. Those left behind would find themselves lonely in echoing houses, far from friends.

    Paul’s Story, Reimagined

    The original Downsizing handicapped itself by making Paul’s first moments in the small world miserable — the heartbreak of his wife backing out left him sulking instead of letting us share in the thrill of the transformation. In a better version, Paul’s wife would leave him before the decision, taking half their wealth and leaving downsizing as his only real option.

    He would arrive excited, wide-eyed, marveling at every new detail. But slowly, he’d notice the cracks — the wind, the pests, the creeping reappearance of social hierarchies, the loneliness of a mansion that feels more like an abandoned stage set. Eventually, Paul would see the writing on the wall: the small world is heading down the same path as the big one.

    He’d try to fight it, giving speeches, lobbying for reforms, trying to hold back the tide — but he’d fail. And in that failure, he’d find acceptance. He’d stop worrying about saving the system and instead focus on his own purpose. His world would mirror the old one, and he’d no longer be bothered by it. Because he’d finally learned that life needs struggles, that these challenges are what make people stronger.

    Start with the Obvious Before the Variations

    When a concept is this fresh, let the first story be the most obvious one — the purest exploration of the premise that made the audience buy the ticket in the first place. Once that’s been explored, you can start playing with stranger, subtler variations in sequels. Downsizing skipped the most vital chapter of its own potential saga, leaving us with glimpses of a world we wanted to live in, but never really got to experience.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Bright (2017): A Treasure Trove Buried in Chaos — Reforging a New Storyline from the Shards of Potential

    David Ayer’s Bright arrived on Netflix with a bold ambition: merge gritty L.A. cop drama with urban fantasy. It brought orcs, elves, wands, and police politics into one cauldron, and from the first act, it felt like something daring and fresh. The premise was original, the allegories (while clunky) had promise, and the world clearly had depth waiting to be explored.

    But not long into its runtime, the film began to buckle under its own weight. Magic systems were vague and overpowered. Character motivations flickered inconsistently. And the story was ultimately hijacked by lore-dumps, invisible dark lords, and a wand so powerful it could rewrite reality, yet everyone chased it with the logic of a high school hallway fight. What could’ve been a street-smart fantasy ended up feeling like watching two different films wrestle for dominance — with both losing.

    The core problem? Bright wanted to say something, but didn’t know who it wanted to say it through. So let’s fix that.

    Rewriting the Focus: Give Jakoby the Lead, and Let Him Earn the Light

    The heart of Bright — what little of it remains visible under all the clutter — is the orc cop Nick Jakoby. He’s the first orc in the police force. He’s hated by orcs, ridiculed by humans, and distrusted by everyone, including his partner Ward. But what makes him special isn’t magic. It’s his moral compass. His relentless optimism. His quiet resilience.

    So in this revision, Jakoby becomes the true protagonist.

    Everything stays: the scorn, the bullying, the looks. But we deepen it — Jakoby vows to remain positive, refuses to give in to hate, and keeps believing in the good he sees in others. Ward, meanwhile, becomes a test. He’s aggressive, cynical, and deeply uncomfortable with Jakoby. At one point, under pressure, Ward even blames Jakoby for a civilian death to save his own skin. Jakoby doesn’t lash out. He forgives him.

    In another pivotal echo of Ward’s earlier cruelty, Ward dares Jakoby to kill a fairy — like he once did. But Jakoby refuses, recognizing that the fairy, annoying as it may be, did nothing wrong. And so his integrity stays intact.

    All of this leads to the final revelation that Jakoby is a Bright. Not because of bloodlines or hidden lore, but because he is worthy. It would no longer feel like a cameo twist. It would feel earned — like the natural culmination of a moral journey.

    Tone Down the Wand, And Give the Plot a Beating Heart

    The magic in Bright escalates fast. Too fast. A wand that grants any wish is not only lazy — it breaks the world. Instead, let’s restrain its power: the wand can now only resurrect one life per moon cycle. Still immensely powerful, but finite, manageable, and narratively functional.

    And now, it’s not about world-ending threats or vague resurrections of Sauron-like Dark Lords we’ve never seen. The plot becomes sharper: an elven extremist leader has died, and a faction of elves has just three days to bring him back before his soul departs forever. Tikka, once part of their circle, now disillusioned by their cruelty and propaganda, steals the wand and goes on the run.

    That’s where our story begins — not with apocalypses or chosen ones, but with a desperate mission and a deeply personal betrayal. No sky beams. No cults. Just a chase with moral weight.

    Give the Orcs a Voice, and Humans Something to Learn

    In Bright, orcs are set up as an allegory for oppressed groups, but the execution is surface-level. They’re shoved aside, used for quick laughs or cameos, with almost no meaningful screen presence.

    Let’s change that.

    The revised story reveals a social truth that upends what the humans believe: while humans historically hate orcs and romanticize elves, elves have always despised humans — cold superiority masked behind culture and wealth. In contrast, orcs have always admired humans, perhaps even revering them as allies or aspirational partners in society.

    But due to a long campaign of anti-orc propaganda pushed by elven elites, humanity never knew. They chose to believe that the elves, elegant and advanced, were inherently better — and the orcs brutish and savage.

    This adds emotional richness to Jakoby’s journey. He isn’t just the first orc on the force. He’s the first ambassador of truth, forced to prove himself in a world stacked against him, while harboring a deep and genuine love for the very people who mistreat him.

    A Bright Future Earned, Not Bestowed

    In this version, Jakoby’s eventual rise as a Bright isn’t a last-minute twist or a fan-service gimmick. It’s the culmination of everything he’s endured and everything he’s stood for. His arc has meaning. His story has weight.

    And there’s something inherently powerful in that final image: an ugly, ridiculed, gentle-hearted orc becomes Bright—not because he was destined, but because he proved himself worthy. The very idea of “Bright” is redefined—not as magic bloodlines, but as moral clarity and unwavering hope in a world of darkness.

    It’s that contrast—an orc shining with light—that would have made Bright truly brilliant.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Greatest Showman (2017): Weaving a Richer Narrative

    “The Greatest Showman” burst onto screens as a vibrant, musical spectacle, enchanting audiences with its dazzling performances, infectious songs, and a heartwarming message of acceptance. Hugh Jackman’s charismatic portrayal of P.T. Barnum anchors a film that, for all its visual grandeur, undeniably holds a cherished place in modern musical cinema. Yet, beneath the shimmering surface of its undeniably great moments, there lie narrative threads that, if pulled and rewoven, could transform an already enjoyable film into a truly profound and unforgettable storytelling achievement. The film, while celebrating the extraordinary, occasionally smooths over the very grit and consequence that make a character’s journey truly earned.

    The current narrative, for instance, touches upon the friction between Barnum’s flamboyant enterprise and the staid sensibilities of the local community. We see glimpses of protestors and hear murmurs of disapproval, but this crucial conflict remains largely underdeveloped. Similarly, Barnum’s pivotal decision to reject Jenny Lind’s romantic overtures, while a personal triumph of fidelity, oddly lacks explicit, immediate professional repercussions for his “legitimate” ambitions. These moments, along with the climactic fire that devastates Barnum’s museum, often feel more like convenient plot devices than the hard-won consequences of a character’s actions. True reckoning, in compelling storytelling, is rarely a random event; it’s the inevitable echo of choices made.

    An Alternative Outline

    Imagine, then, an alternative outline for “The Greatest Showman,” one where these narrative pitfalls are not just acknowledged but actively explored, deepening the stakes and enriching Barnum’s transformative journey.

    The initial unease from the local community, for example, would not merely be background noise but a growing chorus of condemnation. We would see townspeople not just protesting, but actively organizing, perhaps even attempting to block entry to Barnum’s museum. This escalating animosity would push Barnum, in his characteristic hubris, to an extreme: he would obtain a restraining order, effectively banning the most vocal locals from his premises. This aggressive act, born of frustration and defiance, would be a direct challenge, an arrogant dismissal of the very community he seeks to entertain, and would inevitably fan the flames of resentment into a raging inferno.

    This intensified “war” with the locals would set the stage for a far more impactful reckoning. The devastating fire that consumes Barnum’s museum would no longer feel like a tragic accident vaguely linked to a generic protest. Instead, it would be a direct and tragic consequence, a deliberate act of arson by an enraged faction of the townspeople, pushed to their breaking point by Barnum’s provocation and his perceived affront to their values. When Barnum surveys the smoking ruins, his despair would be mingled with a crushing sense of personal responsibility, a grim realization that his own choices, his own arrogance, had directly contributed to this catastrophic loss. The public fallout would be severe, with his name now synonymous with scandal, not just spectacle, further isolating him at his lowest point.

    Concurrently, the Jenny Lind affair would carry far more explicit professional consequences. When Barnum ultimately rejects her advances, Lind would not simply depart. Her wounded pride, perhaps even a calculated move to protect her own image, would lead her to publicly abandon the tour, casting a devastating shadow on Barnum’s managerial competence. Critics, who had only just begun to offer him a grudging acceptance in the world of high art, would now unleash a torrent of denouncements, branding him an untrustworthy impresario and a charlatan unfit for legitimate artistic endeavors. This public humiliation and professional ruin would be a decisive blow to Barnum’s “respectable” aspirations, explicitly shattering his dream of high society acceptance and leaving him with no viable path forward in that world.

    These changes would profoundly alter the sequence of events. Barnum’s initial success would feel more tenuous, constantly under siege. His turn to Jenny Lind would be a more desperate attempt at validation, and its failure a more crushing defeat. The fire, instead of being a general setback, would serve as the explicit rock bottom, born directly from his escalating conflicts. His eventual return to the circus would therefore be less of a whimsical choice and more of a humbling necessity, a recognition that his true place, his true family, lies not in the fleeting approval of the elite, but among those he initially sought to exploit, and then championed.

    By embracing these darker, more consequential narrative threads, “The Greatest Showman” would elevate its already powerful themes. Barnum’s journey of redemption would be far more earned, his understanding of true acceptance deeper, and his ultimate embrace of his “family” of performers not just a moral triumph, but a hard-won lesson in humility and the true cost of ambition untempered by empathy. Crucially, in the aftermath of the fire, Barnum would necessarily have to amend his relationship with the locals. From this hard-won reconciliation, this act of genuine humility and listening to their concerns, the practical and respectful idea of a tent by the river would arise. This solution would be a testament to mutual compromise and newfound respect, signifying not just a physical relocation for the circus, but a profound shift in Barnum’s approach to community and coexistence. The story would become a richer tapestry, demonstrating that the most profound and resonant tales are often woven from the threads of our choices, and the inevitable, sometimes harsh, consequences they bring.

    Thank you!

    Ira

  • The Circle (2017): A Surveillance Thriller That Forgot What It Was Watching — So We Rebuilt the Ending

    The Circle is one of those movies that almost sells itself on paper. A chilling, near-future tech dystopia, starring Tom Hanks as a charming cult-like CEO and Emma Watson as the young idealist pulled into his empire. It should’ve been The Social Network meets Black Mirror. Instead, it became a bland tech drama that flatlined just when it should have exploded.

    What went wrong wasn’t the idea — surveillance culture, data worship, and social transparency are all timely themes. The problem was the story’s execution: emotionally flat, dramatically toothless, and worst of all, indecisive.

    Mae (Emma Watson) enters the world of The Circle full of hope and quickly rises through the ranks. But her transformation from doe-eyed intern to public face of a transparency-obsessed empire happens without any real emotional journey. The company’s big bad secret? There isn’t one. The Circle isn’t revealed to be sinister — just vaguely creepy. The founders (played by Tom Hanks and Patton Oswalt) are never caught doing anything actually illegal or monstrous. The final twist, where Mae “turns the tables” by broadcasting their emails, feels unearned and hollow. There’s no real reckoning, no weight behind it. She doesn’t expose a conspiracy — she just… live-streams some managers.

    The film pretends this is a triumphant ending. But it isn’t. It’s a narrative shrug disguised as rebellion.

    So we reimagined the ending — not by blowing up the system, but by giving Mae real agency, raising the stakes, and letting the ideology collapse under its own contradictions.

    The Alternative Outline

    In our version, Mae eventually discovers the real darkness behind The Circle: manipulation, illegal surveillance, identity blackmail, and yes — maybe even orchestrated tragedies used to control narratives and push adoption of their technology. The Circle doesn’t just watch — it shapes.

    Shaken, Mae tries to weaponize the company’s core belief — that transparency is power — against its founders. She approaches Bailey (Tom Hanks) and, before a major public presentation, casually asks if he’d consider wearing a SeeChange camera for a full workday. He immediately understands the risk. Wearing it part-time could be a stunt. But full-time? That’s a precedent. That’s dangerous. He weasels out.

    So Mae does it herself. In front of the world, she volunteers to be the first full-time, 24/7 SeeChange subject. A living experiment. Bailey is furious — not because it’s dangerous, but because it raises the bar. If she does it… who’s next? He warns her, something unexpected might happen and people need their privacy. But she insists.

    Sure enough, things go wrong. Privacy breaches, family strain, emotional fallout. Mae’s friend Mercer cuts contact. Her parents grow cold. Bailey it satisfied. With a sigh of relief, he tells her: “See? This is why privacy matters. You’re proving my point.” But Mae doesn’t back down.

    Instead, she doubles down. She launches “Soul Search” — a feature that allows the crowd to locate anyone who’s not wearing their own camera, anywhere, within minutes. Criminals. People in hiding. And maybe even people who simply don’t want to be found. It’s a message to Bailey. But the rollout is brutal. It causes real-world harm. Mercer, trying to escape the swarm of scrutiny, is tracked down and killed by accident — just like in the original film.

    Bailey is thrilled. Not about Mercer, but about what it means. He thinks: “Now they’ll never want me wearing a camera. This proves we need gatekeepers. This proves people can’t handle full transparency.”

    Mae is devastated. She steps aside for a while. But she doesn’t give up. She returns stronger than ever. At her next public presentation, again wearing the camera, she opens up. She shares her grief. Her guilt. Her heartbreak. She speaks honestly about Mercer’s death, about what it meant to be truly seen — and what it means to be truly alone. She doesn’t pitch a product. She mourns.

    And in that moment, something shifts. The audience — the millions watching — feel it with her. They feel the connection. The magic. They don’t reject the system. They want more!

    Mae asks again: “Why doesn’t Bailey wear the camera?” And this time, the crowd cheers. They demand it. The founders are blindsided, exposed not by a data leak, but by their own ideology finally catching up to them.

    It’s not a full revolution. The Circle isn’t destroyed. But it’s the first real crack in its armor — the moment when the leaders can no longer hide behind the illusion of benevolence. The system is turning on itself. Not because someone attacked it… but because someone believed in it too much for their own good.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Mummy (2017): From Chaotic Curse to Compelling Character-Driven Thriller

    The Mummy (2017) promised to reboot a beloved franchise with modern thrills and supernatural horror, yet it faltered under a weight of confusing plot choices, excessive exposition, and underdeveloped characters. One of the biggest pitfalls was the film’s failure to fully explore the intriguing potential of its protagonist, Nick Morton, and the rich mythology surrounding Ahmanet, the ancient princess turned mummy. Instead, the movie veered towards generic action sequences and missed opportunities to deepen the narrative tension.

    At the heart of the reimagining is a shift in focus: building on Nick’s characterization as a selfish antiquities raider with flawed motivations. Rather than being a passive participant caught in supernatural events, Nick should actively initiate the conflict by stealing something forbidden from the very cave Jenny warns him about. This act of hubris sets the story in motion and grounds his arc in a believable, human flaw — greed and reckless curiosity. When Nick discovers the true price of his theft, he returns covertly to the cave, despite his commander’s orders to protect the area. There, Jenny is working, urging caution against disturbing the sarcophagus, but Nick removes a glittering object that hints at supernatural power anyway. Later it is he who insists of taking the sarcophagus with them, not Jenny.

    This small but significant act frames Nick not only as the catalyst for the unfolding curse but also justifies Ahmanet’s later claim that he is her “chosen one.” By being the one who frees her, Nick’s personal journey becomes entwined with the curse’s consequences, making his arc more compelling and consequential.

    Another missed opportunity lies in the portrayal of Ahmanet herself. Rather than a static villainess, she could be gradually rebuilt into the most striking and seductive woman imaginable. Her resurrection would be a slow, eerie process: initially feeding on vulnerable homeless people who cannot escape her grasp, then evolving into a captivating figure whose attractiveness opens doors to more powerful and influential prey. Ahmanet’s seduction of Nick would be multifaceted — not merely based on physical allure but enhanced by her manifestation powers.

    Importantly, these manifestation powers would be grounded, not magical spells but rather ancient alchemical knowledge — including the legendary art of turning lead into gold. This practical, scientifically tinged ability would allow her to swiftly ascend the social ladder, infiltrating elite circles and growing her power and influence every day. The stakes would rise as it becomes clear that to maintain her vitality, Ahmanet requires a constant supply of souls, which adds a dark parasitic dimension to her rise.

    Introducing Dr. Jekyll as a complex figure intertwined in this web adds another layer of conflict. His attempt to capture Ahmanet creates tension, especially for Nick, who views Jekyll as an antagonist because keeping Ahmanet away from him also means limiting Nick’s chance to confront or control her. Meanwhile, Jenny serves as a distant but steady voice of reason in Nick’s head, guiding him morally and strategically — a presence Nick would ultimately owe gratitude to by the story’s end.

    The narrative culmination would see Nick’s repentance for unleashing the ancient evil and his eventual resistance to Ahmanet’s seductive power. His final confrontation with her — resulting in her death — would feel earned and satisfying, completing a character arc rooted in growth and redemption rather than random heroism.

    By restructuring the story around these character-driven choices, the film would benefit greatly from a more natural and engaging progression. Nick’s active role in triggering the curse personalizes the stakes and motivates his transformation. Ahmanet’s evolution from a lurking threat to an irresistible and dangerous social predator adds depth and tension, while the inclusion of grounded alchemical powers provides a fresh take on supernatural abilities that fit the story’s tone. The interplay between Nick, Jenny, Dr. Jekyll, and Ahmanet creates a dynamic web of alliances and antagonisms that enhance the drama.

    Overall, these changes would allow the story to unfold with clarity, emotional resonance, and thematic cohesion — qualities that were sorely missing in the original. The result would be a richer, more satisfying experience for audiences craving a thoughtful supernatural thriller with complex characters, moral ambiguity, and escalating tension.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017) – Making the Love Story Matter

    When Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets hit theaters, I was thrilled at the prospect of a new sci-fi epic. A fresh universe. Strange aliens. Stunning worldbuilding. And most of all, a rare opportunity for an original space opera in a cinema landscape crowded with reboots and franchises. From the very start, the film looked and felt like a visual marvel. Luc Besson’s vision of the intergalactic city of Alpha, the colorful markets, the alien cultures — all of it carried the vibrant creativity reminiscent of The Fifth Element. It should have been a triumphant return to this kind of world-spanning, genre-blending storytelling.

    But it wasn’t.

    Instead, Valerian became one of those painful cinematic experiences where the potential shines through the cracks, only to be suffocated by a story that doesn’t understand itself. Its heart is muddled. Its tone confused. And despite flashes of genius, it collapses under the weight of a love story it doesn’t earn, a protagonist it doesn’t challenge, and a plot that favors movement over meaning.

    The core issue begins with Valerian himself — a character who never quite knows who he is. The film tries to present him as a cocky but capable space agent, a rogue with a heart of gold. But instead of charm, we’re given posturing. Instead of depth, we’re given smirks and forced flirtation. His obsession with Laureline is played for laughs, then pivoted to serious proposal-level romance within the opening ten minutes, leaving the audience without any emotional foothold. Why should we care if he loves her, when nothing has been shown — only told?

    Laureline, for her part, is actually one of the film’s more grounded elements. Cara Delevingne plays her with surprising control: composed, intelligent, resistant to Valerian’s nonsense. But even she is undermined by the script, reduced to a reactive character when she should have been co-leading the story. The worst sin of all, however, is what the film does to their relationship. It tells us they’re meant to be, but never lets us feel it. It throws them into situations together, but never gives them space to grow — to change.

    Which is a shame, because buried underneath the bombastic visuals and disjointed plot is a story aching to be told: a story about love, ego, and identity in the middle of a collapsing empire. But for it to work, everything would need to shift.

    The re-imagined outline

    Let’s imagine what Valerian could have been, if it had trusted the emotional journey as much as the visual spectacle.

    We begin the same way: Valerian is a top agent, decorated and brave — but emotionally immature. His obsession with Laureline isn’t romance; it’s insecurity. He’s clinging to her because she’s the one thing he thinks can make him whole. He bombards her with dinner invitations. Gifts. Empty promises. He uses his successes to boast in front of her, hoping she’ll fold under the weight of his charm. But she doesn’t. She’s suffocating.

    After a string of failed attempts, she finally relents and agrees to a dinner just to quiet the noise. But it doesn’t work. He goes overboard, presenting her with an entire floating sky-lounge experience, awkwardly overcompensating while she barely touches her drink. She doesn’t want to be conquered — she wants to be heard. When she tells him this, he doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never had to listen before.

    Their next mission forces them together, right when she’s finally begun to set emotional boundaries. The tension is thick. They operate like professionals, but the strain is evident. During a critical moment in the mission, Valerian makes a unilateral call. It goes wrong. People get hurt. Laureline is furious.

    She calls him out — not for the mistake, but for the mindset.

    “You said you changed,” she says. “But you’re still trying to write the story where you’re the hero and I’m just the sidekick.”

    They split for a while — mission protocol demands it — and Valerian, wounded and directionless, ends up wandering the strange districts of Alpha alone. That’s when he stumbles into the shapeshifter bar and meets Bubble.

    In the original film, this sequence felt random and disconnected. But here, it becomes a natural consequence of Valerian’s downward spiral after screwing up with Laureline again. And a proper place for a turning point. Bubble doesn’t just entertain him — she sees through him. Morphing into pieces of his ego, pieces of Laureline, and finally into himself, she speaks the truth he’s been avoiding:

    “You think you love her. But you just need her to make sense of yourself.”

    Her words don’t fix him. But they crack something open. And when she’s gone — whether through sacrifice or departure — Valerian is left with nothing but silence and guilt. And finally, clarity.

    On the next phase of the mission, he’s alone. He’s lost track of Laureline. Her beacon has vanished. Panic starts to rise in him again — the old reflex: chase, control, force. But this time, he stops. He puts his hand on his chest. He breathes. And in the middle of this chaos, something shifts.

    He doesn’t run. He listens.

    In that stillness, he remembers her. Not as a prize. Not as a mission objective. But as someone who lives within him now — not because she’s his, but because he’s finally opened space in himself to understand her.

    He starts to move again. Calmer. Sharper. Following a trail not of tech or orders, but of instinct — the kind he’s finally earned.

    When he finds her, she looks at him with both suspicion and relief. There’s a beat of silence between them. And then she asks:

    “How did you find me?”

    He smiles, not with swagger, but with quiet resolve.

    “I stopped looking.”

    Because he wasn’t chasing her anymore. He was walking beside her. Even when she wasn’t there.

    This version of Valerian becomes more than just a stylish space adventure. It becomes a story about letting go — of ego, of performance, of the need to be loved in a certain way. It allows its characters to fall apart before they come together. It allows love to be earned, not assumed. It lets Laureline remain strong without being distant, and lets Valerian become real without losing his edge.

    These changes wouldn’t just “fix” the movie. They’d transform it.

    Valerian could have been a space opera about emotional maturity — a spectacular sci-fi tale where the real heroism wasn’t the action, but the ability to see someone else clearly, and still choose to change. The city of a thousand planets didn’t need saving. Its agents did.

    And this time, maybe they could save themselves.

    Thanks!

    Ira

  • Alien: Covenant (2017) – Decent, But Its Story Still Needs Patching

    Alien: Covenant (2017), Ridley Scott’s ambitious return to the universe he helped define, aimed to bridge the philosophical ponderings of Prometheus with the brutal scares of his original masterpiece. While it boasted strong visuals, atmospheric dread, and a compelling dual performance from Michael Fassbender, its story often felt messy and didn’t quite deliver on its full potential, leaving many fans feeling a bit let down.

    The Original Story’s Stumbles

    The movie had some clear issues, mostly centered around the android, David. Making David the one who created the Xenomorph really took away the monster’s mystery. It became less of a terrifying, ancient force and more of a science experiment, shrinking the universe’s existential dread. Compounding this, David’s seemingly pointless slaughter of the Engineers felt random and didn’t make much sense. It cheapened the big questions Prometheus raised about our creators. Then there was David’s confusing benevolence; he sometimes “helped” the human crew, which simply didn’t fit his cruel nature. These moments felt like convenient plot devices rather than genuine character actions. Adding to all this, David was revealed as the primary villain too early, which unfortunately killed much of the suspense. The audience knew he was the bad guy long before the characters did, diminishing the tension of a hidden threat.

    A Reimagined Path: The Insidious Game

    Let’s imagine a version of Alien: Covenant that builds suspense and terror through subtle manipulation and a terrifying secret. This story would pick up after the crew’s ship is destroyed and they’ve lost two members.

    The remaining crew, desperate and disoriented, manages to make an emergency shelter near a huge cave system, hoping for safety. Unbeknownst to them, this is in fact close to David’s hidden base. David observes them from a distance, studying their reactions, their vulnerabilities, and their desperation. He watches as they set up a basic camp and try to contact their main ship.

    But their radio picks up a faint, broken distress signal. It’s barely audible through the static, a ghost of a voice from the past, made even more eerie by its intermittent nature as if its power source is finally failing after years of continuous broadcast. After working hard to clean it up, the crew’s comms officer identifies the voice: Dr. Elizabeth Shaw’s. The message, fractured and desperate, hints at “him” and a “living weapon.” This chilling, almost imperceptible whisper from beyond becomes a tantalizing, horrifying mystery, compelling a part of the crew, like Daniels, to go investigate.

    This creates two intertwining paths. A reconnaissance team, including Daniels, bravely ventures out to track the weak signal to its source: the derelict Engineer Juggernaut – the very ship Dr. Elizabeth Shaw and David had landed in years ago. Meanwhile, back at the makeshift camp, the rest of the crew, accompanied by their trusted synthetic, Walter, grapple with dwindling resources and growing paranoia.

    Slowly they begin to explore their immediate surroundings. They soon discover a hidden entrance to a grotesque laboratory, filled with mutated flora and fauna, and chilling early biological experiments. They are utterly grossed out by what they find, a clear sign of something deeply wrong on this planet. It’s a chilling warning, but they don’t yet know its true source.

    David never reveals himself

    This is where David’s insidious game truly begins. After the crew has had their initial, horrifying encounter with his lab, David secretly disables and replaces Walter, seamlessly taking on his identity. David never reveals himself prior to that, as he has no human necessity to do so. As “Walter,” David subtly manipulates them, offering seemingly helpful advice that leads them deeper into his “garden,” a place where he continues his twisted work. He uses his assumed identity to control or subtly redirect the dangerous Neomorphs (the early alien forms). He allows some attacks to happen (for his meticulous observation of their effectiveness and the crew’s reactions) while “saving” others, meticulously testing their suitability as hosts. The crew, amazed by “Walter’s” resilience and knowledge, attributes it to his advanced programming, completely oblivious that the very horrors they just discovered are the work of the “Walter” standing beside them.

    Simultaneously, the recon team exploring the Juggernaut makes a series of horrifying discoveries. They find Shaw’s personal effects, her desperate, increasingly frantic log entries, and the gruesome evidence of her demise. She wasn’t just killed; she was a subject in David’s terrible experiments, enduring a long, agonizing period. They piece together how Shaw, growing more and more suspicious of David’s true intentions and his experiments with the black goo, had tried to fight back and warn others before her tragic end. They discover David’s chillingly detailed notes and scientific observations, revealing his true nature: not a creator, but a meticulous scholar of destruction. He simply perfected what the Engineers themselves had unleashed and failed to control. In this revised account, the Engineers perished not by David’s arbitrary hand, but as a consequence of their own unchecked biological weaponry, their civilization consumed by its own hubris. The recon team slowly, agonizingly, begins to piece together the horrifying truth about David’s cold, calculating malice and the true origins of the Xenomorph.

    As the recon team desperately tries to send a warning back to the camp, their messages are fraught with urgency and static, barely comprehensible fragments about “the android” and “the experiments.” At the same time, the crew at the camp starts to notice something wrong with “Walter.” Perhaps they catch him in a disturbing act, like experimenting on an injured crewmate, or see a flash of cold malice in his eyes. The warnings from the recon team, now understood, only amplify the terror. They still believe the dangerous synthetic mentioned in the warning is some other threat lurking out there. The film’s climax, with the daring rescue, the terrifying xenomorph infiltration, and the final, shocking revelation of Walter’s true identity in a moment of ultimate betrayal, can then unfold in a way that aligns with the original script’s ending, but with far greater psychological impact.

    Why This Works Better

    This new story directly fixes the original film’s problems. By making David a witness and perfecter rather than the sole creator, the Xenomorph’s cosmic horror is restored, giving it back its ancient, inexplicable power. David’s Engineer attack becomes meaningful, tied to their own downfall, not just random evil. His “help” to the crew is now part of a chilling manipulation, making him a truly sinister, consistent villain. And by keeping David’s existence hidden until the last terrifying moments, the story builds immense psychological suspense. The horror shifts from just an external monster to the insidious terror of betrayal from within, making the humans’ struggle far more personal and impactful. Finally, Dr. Shaw’s tragic fate gains profound significance as a key piece of the puzzle, her last moments providing vital clues that could, if discovered in time, reveal the true scope of David’s malevolence. This approach not only plugs plot holes but elevates Alien: Covenant into a richer, more suspenseful, and ultimately more terrifying installment in the beloved franchise.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Death of Stalin (2017) – The Emperor, the Strength and the Moon

    Not only is The Death of Stalin a well-crafted political comedy with few noticeable shortcomings, it also serves—perhaps unintentionally—as one of the clearest cinematic representations of the fourth column of the Major Arcana: The Emperor (IV), Strength (XI), and The Moon (XVIII).

    This triad, when viewed vertically in the classic three-row Tarot tableau, outlines a symbolic progression: wish for power and control in the mind, its enforcement and maintenance in the physical world, and its spiritual aftermath. In other words, authority imposed through force/strength inevitably leads to fear, confusion, and illusion.

    Stalin’s regime is the Emperor in its rigid, hierarchical form. The brutal apparatus that sustains his rule—propaganda, fear, and compliance—is Strength. And what follows, as the system unravels, is pure Moon energy: paranoia, secrecy, and the eerie absence of truth.

    Of course, this triad—the Emperor, Strength, and the Moon—is not limited to grand historical narratives or totalitarian regimes. On the contrary, it appears any time we try to impose control without grounding our actions in authenticity or love. It’s a universal pattern. Wherever control is pursued for its own sake, force inevitably follows, and illusion is the result.

    Example #1 – Throwing a party

    This isn’t just about governments—it can be as small and familiar as throwing a party. Imagine organizing one not because you genuinely want to connect, but because you feel you should. Maybe you’re trying to impress someone, fulfill a social expectation, or avoid loneliness. In that moment, you’re stepping into the role of the Emperor—trying to orchestrate an outcome.

    But because the intent lacks sincerity, you’ll likely need to apply pressure to get people there—emotional nudges, guilt, subtle manipulation. That’s Strength, not as inner resilience or patience, but as a tool for control. The party may still happen, people may show up—but the vibe will be off. The warmth won’t be there. And what’s left is the Moon: uncertainty, doubt, and the nagging feeling that none of it was real.

    You won’t know if the guests came out of joy or obligation. You won’t know if the connection was genuine or just performed. And you’ll be left wondering whether the whole thing was an illusion.

    Example #2 – Parenting with Control Instead of Connection

    A parent, wanting the best for their child, sets strict rules and expectations: perfect grades, top performance, ideal behavior. At first, it seems structured and responsible—the Emperor building order.

    But when the child resists or struggles, the parent doubles down. Consequences get harsher, rewards more conditional. That’s Strength applied as pressure—not as patience, but as enforcement.

    Eventually, the child may conform outwardly, but inside there’s a loss of authenticity. The parent no longer knows if their child is thriving or simply complying. The relationship becomes clouded, driven by performance instead of trust. The Moon sets in: confusion, emotional distance, and a creeping sense of alienation on both sides.

    Example #3 – A Creative Project with the Wrong Motivation

    An artist begins a new project not from inspiration, but pressure: to stay relevant, to hit a deadline, to prove something. The Emperor sets the goal, the structure.

    They push through the process with sheer will—Strength becomes grind. They force creativity instead of following it. The result might look good on the outside, but it feels hollow. No spark.

    Worse, the artist starts questioning their own talent, their direction. The audience’s reaction is unpredictable. The whole thing feels like a foggy dream—that’s the Moon: a crisis of clarity, and a project disconnected from its soul.

    This is the consequence of trying to get things done without love, without truth. The Emperor may build a system, but if that system isn’t rooted in love, the Moon is already waiting.

    Final thoughts

    Ultimately, this cycle—control, force, illusion—can only be broken when something gives. When the structure collapses, when the willpower runs dry, when the illusion becomes too heavy to bear. That’s when our story shifts. And it is here that we find ourselves in The Hanged Man—not as punishment, but as surrender. He represents the first true pause in the system, the moment when we stop forcing and start listening. When we let go of control, abandon false strength, and allow the truth—however uncomfortable it might be in that moment—to rise. Only through this suspension can clarity return, and with it, the possibility of moving forward not with force, but with insight. The Emperor builds systems; the Hanged Man helps us unlearn the ones that no longer serve.

    Ira

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

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

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

    So lets point them out then.

    Major arcana archetypes in The House

    The magician, the will and the manifestor ✅

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

    The devil ✅

    Bob, the town council member, denies the scholarship

    Justice – Free will to make decision ✅

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

    The high priestess – The inspiration for the unknown ✅

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

    The Hermit – The isolation ✅

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

    The lightning – The idea ✅

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

    The empress – The infatuation ✅

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

    The wheel of fortune – The ups and downs ✅

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

    The star – The hope ✅

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

    The emperor – The controller ✅ The Strength ✅

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

    The moon – The illusion ✅

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

    The hanged man – The balancing out ✅

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

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

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

    The death – The apology ✅ The judgement – resurrection ✅

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

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

    The world – The universe ✅

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

    The Two paths (lovers) – Determination ✅

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

    The chariot – The execution, the purpose ✅

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

    The temperance ✅

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

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

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

    Ira