Arcaneya

Tag: 2021

  • House of Gucci (2021): Polishing a Watchable Drama into a Timeless Tragedy

    Ridley Scott’s House of Gucci is a lavish, immersive film—long at two hours and forty minutes, yet never dull. Scene by scene, it’s alive with intrigue, power plays, and grand emotion. The performances are striking: Lady Gaga radiates charisma and conviction, Adam Driver delivers quiet complexity, and the supporting cast—from Al Pacino’s seasoned gravitas to Jeremy Irons’s fragile dignity—makes every moment visually and emotionally engaging.
    And Jared Leto, in his turn as Paolo, completely redeems himself from his Joker misfire—at least in my eyes.

    As it stands, House of Gucci is a good film, a confidently told saga of ambition and betrayal. But within its already strong structure lies the potential for greatness—a path toward mythic clarity and emotional inevitability.

    From Good to Great: The Hidden Pitfalls

    The film’s pitfalls aren’t obvious flaws—they’re more like missed opportunities. The pacing works, the tone is steady, and the drama is engaging, yet the story hovers between perspectives, leaving audiences unsure who the true protagonist is. Maurizio’s arc is restrained; Patrizia’s is passionate but scattered. The movie chronicles what happened, but not always why it had to happen. In mythic storytelling, the audience needs a single soul to follow—a heart whose triumph or collapse embodies the theme. That heart should have been Patrizia Reggiani.

    Reimagining Patrizia as the True Lead

    Our mission is to polish her character arc—to deepen it into something archetypal, where every rise and fall feels inevitable. Patrizia should not merely orbit Maurizio’s choices; the story should chart her journey from aspiration to obsession, from glamour to ruin.

    Ridley Scott’s original opening already hints at the duality—Patrizia walking elegantly through her father’s trucking yard, surrounded by grit and noise. But because she smiles and flirts, the intended juxtaposition—refinement versus roughness—fades into charm. In our reimagined version, that moment should reveal clear resentment: a woman in silk suffocating in diesel fumes, aching to escape the world of commerce and oil.

    The Hubris and the Fall

    Hubris demands a stumble. Before meeting Maurizio, Patrizia should face a humbling failure born from pride. She dresses in her finest, bringing a friend to a high-society gala, convinced she belongs. But at the door, the doorman checks the list—her name isn’t there. The pause, the whisper, the polite smile—humiliation. Determined, she sneaks in through the servants’ entrance, brushing past crates and kitchen staff, clutching her pride like a jewel. Inside, under glittering chandeliers, she locks eyes with Maurizio Gucci.
    From that moment, her motivation is crystal clear: never again will she stand outside the palace.

    Make her fly High to fall Low

    As Maurizio falls in love and brings her into the family, Patrizia thrives in the limelight. Flashbulbs follow her; society papers crown her Lady Gucci. Maurizio indulges her instincts, even letting her make key business decisions—hiring, firing, shaping campaigns. She begins to taste true power and mistakes it for destiny.
    At a grand Gucci family dinner, conversation turns to backgrounds. Someone mentions her trucking roots; she freezes, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. In a heartbeat, she recovers, laughing lightly, diverting attention with wit. The guests applaud her charm, but under the table her hand trembles. Under no circumstances does she want to return to her past.

    The Breaking Moment: Selling the Name

    In the original film, Patrizia orders the murder before Maurizio sells his stake in Gucci. But in our reimagining, the sale must come first—the ultimate betrayal. By selling the company, Maurizio doesn’t just end a business; he erases her kingdom. The name that gave her identity becomes a commodity. The woman who rose from the fumes to rule in diamonds is thrust back into the same void she tried to escape. And Maurizio leaves her for another, completing the humiliation.

    Now the murder is no longer sensational—it’s inevitable. Her pride cannot bear the annihilation. He has killed her dream, her reflection, her name. In her eyes, ending his life in return is restoring balance. Where a hero might break down, repent, and surrender, Patrizia doubles down—the mark of an antiheroine.

    Forging the Antiheroine

    In myth, the reckoning divides heroes from antiheroes. The hero, faced with ruin, looks inward—cries, confesses, releases the illusion of control, and is reborn in humility. The antihero cannot bend. Pride turns pain into aggression; the wound demands conquest. Patrizia stands at that crossroad and chooses vengeance.
    Her act is not merely crime—it’s the tragic expression of a soul unable to surrender.

    Conclusion: A More Archetypal Tragedy

    With these refinements—resentment in the opening, humiliation before love, visible power in her rise, the sale as ultimate wound—the story transforms. House of Gucci becomes a true archetypal story. By letting Patrizia face her reckoning—the point of no return and eventually choose pride over grace, the film would ascend from an engaging biopic to a timeless tragedy, showing how antiheroes are born when ego refuses to die—and how every crown forged in vanity eventually turns to ash.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Raya and the Last Dragon (2021): A Beautiful World in Need of Grounding

    Disney’s Raya and the Last Dragon arrived in 2021 with stunning visuals, heartfelt performances, and a central theme that resonates across cultures: trust as the key to healing a broken world. Critics and audiences largely found it watchable and emotionally engaging, praising its Southeast Asian inspirations and message of unity. Yet beneath its shimmering surface, the film carries a handful of structural flaws that blur its mythic logic and weaken its emotional payoff. These issues don’t ruin the movie—they simply keep it from becoming the timeless fable it wants to be.

    Let’s look at where the story drifts and how a few grounded adjustments could let its message truly flow.

    The Exposition Avalanche

    The film opens by telling us the entire backstory—dragons, Druun, the magical gem, and the world’s division—before we meet a single living soul. Because we never experience these events through emotion, they fade from memory; even crucial details, such as the dragons remaining petrified after the first miracle, slip away. A stronger opening would show the fall of harmony in a brief cinematic prologue, then let the remaining lore surface naturally through dialogue and discovery. What the hero learns, the audience remembers.

    The Silly Dragon Lore

    We’re informed that dragons “brought water and rain,” as if they were benevolent weather dispensers. This oversimplified notion breaks the myth’s dignity. True elemental beings don’t hand out resources like gifts; they embody the balance of nature itself. Instead, the story could introduce Dragonettes—elemental spirits that like to take the form of dragons. When trust falters, they withdraw, and the elements still. Rain returns not because they “make” it, but because balance is restored.

    Cozy, Predictable Dragons

    All dragons are portrayed as friendly, plush companions. Without mystery or danger, awe disappears. The Dragonettes should be unpredictable—sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce—reflecting the inner state of the world and of Raya herself. When fear divides her heart, they dim; when she trusts, they shimmer. Mythic creatures mirror humanity’s virtues and flaws, not cushion them.

    The First Failed Miracle left dragons petrified

    Sisu’s initial use of the gem saves humanity but leaves the dragons stone, a contradiction never explained. To ground the law of magic, Sisu could admit a tragic mistake: she didn’t trust enough. And from that she learned. The gem requires trust—every heart beating as one—for full restoration. Her doubt achieved partial salvation; faith was the missing element.

    Ungrounded Shapeshifting

    Sisu’s sudden transformation into human form arrives without foreshadowing, feeling whimsical rather than wondrous. If Dragonettes can change shape according to harmony, this should be stated early. Begin with Sisu in human guise—humble, uncertain—so Raya doubts her claim being Sisu. Only when trust blossoms does she reveal her magnificent true form, turning transformation into payoff instead of surprise.

    Namaari’s Vague Antagonism

    Namaari’s resistance to uniting the gem feels contrived. Facing extinction, why hesitate? Give her a clear motive: fear of being petrified again. The shard she clings to is both shield and symbol of control. Handing it over means surrendering her last defense. Now her hesitation carries emotional logic rather than arbitrary conflict.

    Doubt After Sisu’s Death

    When Sisu falls, Namaari’s despair and holding on to the shard should deepen: “Only a Dragon can restore the gem.” This belief amplifies the tension. The humans must act with no guarantee, trusting an unseen law. The waiting becomes sacred suspense, turning faith into the film’s true climax.

    A Resurrection with Cost

    In the current film, Sisu’s automatic revival cancels decision-consequence paradigm. The real resurrection already occurs when the world and dragons awaken anyhow. To preserve weight, Sisu should remain lifeless as the Dragonettes mourn her. Only after Raya and Namaari fully repent—confessing pride, fear, and guilt—does harmony ignite and Sisu breathe again. Her return then embodies transformation, not reset.

    How These Changes Heal the Story

    With these adjustments, Raya and the Last Dragon transforms from a visually impressive parable with loose logic into a fully realized myth with emotional weight and spiritual coherence. The exposition becomes lived experience; the Dragonettes replace simplistic rain-bringers with elemental grace and symbolic truth; miracles follow consistent laws grounded in moral action.

    Trust is no longer a slogan but a tangible force — the current that flows when hearts align. Sacrifice retains consequence, resurrection becomes transformation, and every act reflects a world that operates by clear spiritual physics.

    But perhaps most importantly, these changes restore archetypal familiarity and true dragon lore remains intact. When storytellers deviate too far from these shared narrative roots, the audience struggles to orient themselves. The eyes may admire the spectacle, but the soul cannot recognize its reflection.

    Without that resonance, even the most lavish film risks feeling hollow — failing to generate the emotional word-of-mouth that drives lasting success. A movie can dazzle in the short term, but if its symbols are unmoored and its miracles unearned, it won’t echo in conversation or memory.

    Audiences can’t champion a story they don’t quite understand. You can’t start an excited debate with friends when you’re still trying to decode what you just watched. Imagine the conversation:

    Person A: So, what were the dragons like?
    Person B: Oh, they brought water… you know, like rain spirits.
    Person A: Wait, what?
    Person B: Yeah… and they were magical… I think?
    Person A: Magical? How so?
    Person B: I don’t know… They were turned to stone anyway.
    Person A: …Right. And how was Superman the other day?

    If viewers can’t explain what moved them, or why the world’s logic makes sense, the emotional spark fizzles. Confusion replaces wonder, and conversation drifts to safer ground.

    That’s why mythic clarity matters — not just for artistic integrity, but for cultural survival. When stories honor archetypes and internal laws, audiences recognize their echoes and carry them forward. When they don’t, even spectacle becomes forgettable.

    Grounding a story in coherent myth isn’t just artistic discipline — it’s storytelling economics. Connection creates meaning, meaning creates buzz, and buzz fills seats. By aligning emotional truth with archetypal clarity, Raya and the Last Dragon could have become not only a beautiful film, but a cultural touchstone — one that flows like water through time, remembered for what it taught as much as what it showed.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Chaos Walking (2021): A Missed Opportunity to add The Order

    The 2021 film Chaos Walking had everything it needed to be a groundbreaking science fiction adventure. With a fascinating premise, a star-studded cast including Tom Holland and Daisy Ridley, and a renowned author’s source material, it seemed poised for success. Yet, despite these advantages, the film became a box office flop, failing to resonate with audiences and critics alike. The consensus was clear: the movie’s execution never lived up to its imaginative concept. Critics pointed to a cluttered and confusing central premise, a lackluster villain, and a meandering plot that never found its footing. The core idea, that men’s thoughts were audible and visible as “The Noise,” was a brilliant hook, but the film treated it more like a special effect than the foundation of its world. This was a colossal missed opportunity, as the concept of The Noise could have been the driving force behind a truly compelling and emotionally rich character journey.

    The Journey from Inner Chaos to Focused Thought

    The movie should have used The Noise to show a hero’s growth in a way no other film has. Todd Hewitt, as a young man at the beginning of his journey, should have been defined by his uncontrollable Noise—a messy combination of his fears, doubts, and aspirations. We would see this struggle in his everyday life. For instance, when hunting, his fear of failure and the chaos of his inner thoughts would broadcast his every move, making him clumsy and unsuccessful. This would create a powerful and visible internal conflict that the audience could immediately understand.

    The true arc for Todd would then be the journey of learning to control his inner chaos and turn it into focused, purposeful thought. Early on, he would struggle with tasks like climbing a difficult cliff face, his Noise flaring up with every fear of falling. His growth would be shown through small victories where he learns to quiet his mind and focus on the task at hand. By the end of the film, he would not just be controlling his Noise, he would be a master of it. He would have learned that true maturity for a man in this world isn’t about suppressing thoughts, but about focusing them. The chaotic, jumbled Noise would become a clear, powerful projection of his will—a true sign that he has grown into a man.

    The Amplifying Power of Inspiration and Desire

    One of the most profound missed opportunities was the film’s failure to explore how women affect The Noise. In our own lives, men’s feelings and aspirations are often amplified in the presence of women. A man might feel inspired to be a hero, but that inspiration is almost always accompanied by a cacophony of self-doubt: “She won’t like me,” “I’m not good enough,” “She’ll see right through me.” This is the human truth that should have been at the heart of Todd’s relationship with Viola.

    When Todd first meets Viola, his Noise should have exploded with these amplified thoughts. We would see his hopeful visions of being a great hero for her, immediately followed by the deafening thoughts of his own fears and insecurities. This internal chaos would make him act awkwardly and drive Viola away, as she would be understandably wary of his strange behavior. Todd’s journey of mastering his Noise would then be directly tied to his relationship with her. He would have to learn to quiet his negative thoughts not just for himself, but for her, so she would feel safe and not be repelled by his inner turmoil. In the climax, when he finally masters his Noise, he would project his love and focus for Viola with such clarity that she would finally understand his true heart. This would not only be a moment of personal triumph for Todd but also a beautiful, earned payoff for the audience, showing a profound and unique connection between the two characters.

    A Villain with a More Human Desire

    Finally, the villain Mayor Prentiss’s motivation for pursuing Viola felt disappointingly flat. After years of living in a world without women, his relentless chase felt generic, as if he simply wanted her technology. But what if his motivation was far more human and, in a way, more terrifyingly relatable? After living in a world of only men, Prentiss would be driven by a desperate, all-consuming desire to be with a woman again. Viola, being the first woman he’s seen in years, would become the focus of his twisted desires. His pursuit wouldn’t be just for her ship; it would be for her, to have her for himself. This darker, more personal obsession would give his character a more significant and terrifying drive, making him a villain with a purpose rather than just a plan. This would raise the stakes of the film and make the final confrontation between Todd and Prentiss a battle for Viola’s safety, not just a battle for a spaceship.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Last Duel (2021): One of the Decade’s Best Dramas, But Misunderstood and Mismarketed

    In 2021, The Last Duel quietly slipped through theaters. It had all the ingredients of a major prestige film: Ridley Scott directing, Matt Damon and Adam Driver headlining, Ben Affleck in a striking supporting role, and Jodie Comer delivering a performance of extraordinary restraint and power. And yet, despite the pedigree, it flopped. Many people didn’t even know what it was.

    Now, typically when we revisit a film like this, it’s to examine what went wrong with the storytelling — to tighten a plotline, fix a character arc, or reshape a missed opportunity. But in this case, we have no such complaints. The Last Duel is a storytelling triumph. Its structure is bold but effective. Its characters are complex and contradictory in the best way. The themes are heavy, but the emotional execution is razor sharp. There is nothing broken in the script that needs repairing.

    And that’s what makes its failure all the more frustrating.

    For those who saw it, The Last Duel revealed itself to be not a sword-swinging epic, but something far more intimate, painful, and relevant: a story of a woman forced to risk her life just to speak the truth. It wasn’t about chivalry. It was about Marguerite de Carrouges, a woman who accuses a powerful man, Jacques Le Gris, of rape, and must watch her fate be decided — not by reason, not by testimony, but by a duel between two men. If her husband loses, she burns alive.

    The film’s power lies in its structure. Through a Rashomon-style lens, we see the same events unfold three times: first through the eyes of Jean de Carrouges, Marguerite’s husband; then through the perspective of Le Gris, the accused; and finally, from Marguerite herself — the version the film labels, simply and chillingly, “The Truth.” Each perspective strips away another layer of ego and denial. What begins as a tale of male pride and political rivalry becomes a quiet horror story about a woman being suffocated by the silence around her.

    And yet, it was titled The Last Duel. A title that, while technically accurate — it was France’s final legally sanctioned trial by combat — completely misses the point. It sells the film as a medieval action piece when, in truth, the duel is not the heart of the story — it’s the violent punctuation on a story about justice denied. The title tells us nothing about the soul of the film. It doesn’t even hint at Marguerite.

    Imagine instead if the film had been called The Reckoning of Marguerite. With just those few words, the frame shifts. This is no longer about two men in armor — it’s about a woman confronting the men, the court, and the culture that would rather see her die than admit she might be telling the truth. “Reckoning” suggests judgment — not just legal, but moral. Not just of the men involved, but of an entire world that failed her.

    The tragedy is that many never even saw the trailer, let alone the film. In late 2021, theaters were still recovering from the pandemic. Adult audiences — the kind drawn to serious, character-driven drama — were hesitant to return to cinemas. Those who did were being pulled toward big franchise fare with clearer marketing hooks. And when The Last Duel was promoted, it leaned heavily on sword fights, stern-faced knights, and a muted color palette. The subtlety was buried. The emotional urgency never made it into the ads.

    It’s not that the film failed because it was flawed. It failed because it was brilliant in a moment that didn’t want brilliance — or didn’t know where to look for it. With a stronger title, better positioning, and a campaign that put Marguerite front and center, it could have reached the audience it was made for.

    The Reckoning of Marguerite wouldn’t have changed a single scene. But it might have changed how people saw the film — or whether they saw it at all.

    As it stands, The Last Duel is destined to be one of the great underseen dramas of its time. But perhaps, over time, word of mouth will lift it to where it belongs. Perhaps it will find a second life, not as a forgotten historical oddity, but as a razor-sharp examination of power, silence, and the price of being believed.

    And maybe one day, when someone recommends it to a friend, they won’t even call it by its original name. They’ll say: “You should watch The Reckoning of Marguerite. It’s one of the best films you’ve never seen.”

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Matrix Resurrections (2021): A Fan’s Reflection on What Could Have Been

    As a longtime fan of the original Matrix trilogy, I remember the thrill of watching Neo, Trinity, and Morpheus battle for freedom inside a digital world. The story felt complete when Neo sacrificed himself at the end of Revolutions, ending the war against the machines and bringing peace—at least for a time. So when the announcement of The Matrix Resurrections came, I was cautiously curious but hesitant. Something felt off from the very start. Maybe it was the fact that both Neo and Trinity died in the previous installment, a conclusion that felt weighty and, to my mind, difficult to simply undo. Reversing death in a story requires real care to avoid cheapening the emotional stakes. For that reason, I initially decided not to watch the new film. But eventually, I gave in, and when I did, I was left with mixed feelings.

    The Matrix Resurrections had a promising premise: Neo and Trinity are alive again, their story continuing. Yet, despite some moments of visual style and meta-commentary, the film quickly became a confusing and fragmented experience. It struggled under the weight of its own ideas, faltering between self-awareness, satire, and a romantic drama, while the core story got lost in exposition dumps and underdeveloped characters. The narrative felt hesitant, as if it was afraid to trust its own boldness.

    One of the biggest issues was how the film handled its central resurrection. Neo and Trinity’s revival was almost brushed aside, with only fleeting lines that failed to connect emotionally or thematically. The story leaned heavily on new characters and side plots that rarely came together into a coherent whole. Neo himself often felt passive, swept along by forces he barely understood. Trinity, arguably the other half of the heart of the saga, was sidelined for much of the film, reintroduced late and without the depth her character deserved. And the villain, the Analyst, while intriguing in concept, often came across as a mere mouthpiece for the annoying exposition rather than a real threat. The film’s tone oscillated awkwardly between moody seriousness and sarcastic humor, leaving the stakes unclear and the tension flat.

    But beneath all of this lies a seed of a better story. A story that could have embraced the challenge of bringing Neo and Trinity back in a way that respects their journey, their sacrifice, and their power—not as superheroes, but as deeply human beings fighting for their own freedom.

    This time, they are on their own

    What if, after Neo defeated Agent Smith at the end of Revolutions, the machines did not destroy him but instead recognized the colossal value embedded in his unique neural code? They recovered his body and, in a similar fashion, found and salvaged Trinity as well. Instead of erasing them, they placed both into advanced medical pods—biomechanical cocoons designed to regenerate their damaged tissue and preserve their minds in stasis.

    Slowly, Neo and Trinity were reinserted into a new iteration of the Matrix, their minds wiped clean to prevent rebellion. They woke up separately, each in their own apartment, with throbbing headaches and no memory of their past lives. The entire trilogy—their adventures, their sacrifices—felt like nothing more than an exhaustive dream.

    This sets the stage for a new, deeply intimate story: Neo and Trinity must break out of the Matrix this time on their own. There is no crew to rescue them, no red pills handed down by rebels. Instead, they will have to slowly piece together their fractured memories, regain their abilities, and rediscover each other—astonished by what they once were and what they still might be.

    Neo, living under the alias Thomas Anderson, begins to sense the cracks in his reality through strange, recurring dreams. His skepticism grows, especially about his therapist, the Analyst—a cunning program designed to keep him subdued. Suspicious, Neo secretly switches to another therapist, one who listens and takes his fragmented memories seriously. This therapist becomes a key ally in his awakening. But the Analyst is not blind to this shift; disturbed and cornered, he begins to falter, resorting to increasingly aggressive gaslighting and manipulative tactics to keep Neo under control.

    Amid this internal struggle, Neo channels his restless energy and confusion into creating a video game inspired by his dreams—a surreal, cryptic experience that mirrors the Matrix itself. This game attracts attention, especially from Trinity’s son, who becomes captivated by it. This connection stirs something dormant in Trinity herself, awakening faint echoes of her true self. She seeks Neo out.

    When Neo tentatively mentions Tiffany—the new identity of Trinity—to the Analyst, he meets a harsh response. The Analyst orders Neo to stay away from her, insisting their bond is a dangerous delusion. Neo tries to comply, but his instincts and the magnetic pull between them are too strong to resist. Inevitably, Trinity seeks Neo out, and their reunion sends ripples through the Matrix’s code, accelerating their recovery and threatening the Analyst’s control.

    Together, Neo and Trinity face the daunting challenge of figuring out how to awaken from their pods in the real world. This isn’t a passive unplugging but an active fight—against the Analyst and his digital enforcers. Their confrontation is not one of mere physical combat but a battle of wills, of identity and freedom, where love and intention become weapons powerful enough to bend reality.

    Finally, through their combined strength and mutual trust, they succeed. They break free of the emotional and code restraints binding them. Awakened and vulnerable, they find themselves submerged in their pods, naked and weak but alive. From the heights of the machine city, they must climb down into the devastated world below. Together, they step onto scorched earth, no longer gods or heroes, but two people walking side by side toward Zion—the last beacon of human freedom.

    Finishing thoughts

    This reimagined narrative shifts The Matrix Resurrections from a muddled sequel into a profound meditation on identity, love, and choice. It returns Neo and Trinity to the center of the story, granting them agency and a believable emotional arc. Their escape is no longer a deus ex machina but a hard-earned victory, forged through memory, shared experience, and willpower.

    Instead of relying on flashy action or convoluted exposition, this version embraces quiet moments of realization and psychological depth. Neo’s creation of the video game becomes a metaphor for his subconscious struggle, while Trinity’s gradual awakening illustrates the power of connection beyond memory. The Analyst’s role transforms into a chilling but nuanced antagonist who understands their pain and tries to exploit it, making the final confrontation a meaningful clash of ideologies rather than just spectacle.

    Most importantly, this story honors the themes that made The Matrix so resonant in the first place: the search for truth in a manufactured world, the rebellion of the self against control, and the transformative power of love and choice.

    In the end, it is not about flying through the skies or wielding godlike powers. It is about two flawed, real people choosing to walk together—toward freedom, toward each other, and toward a future they will define on their own terms.

    That is the story The Matrix Resurrections could have told. And it would have been a story worthy of the legacy.

    Thanks,

    Ira