Arcaneya

Tag: 2022

  • Strange World (2022): Improving the Colorful Adventure with a Living Myth and a Love Left Behind

    Disney’s Strange World (2022) arrived with a vibrant aesthetic, retro-pulp sensibilities, and a bold environmental allegory. Set in the lush land of Avalonia, the film follows three generations of the Clade family as they descend into a fantastical underground realm to discover why their crops — the lifeblood of their civilization — are dying. With imaginative visuals and commendable diversity, the film seemed poised to join the ranks of Disney’s grand adventures.

    And yet, despite its ambition, Strange World struggled to resonate with audiences. Its box office performance was disappointing, and its emotional impact felt muted. Many viewers left with the sense that the film had all the right ingredients — wonder, family drama, and a meaningful message — but never found its soul.

    Two major narrative missteps undermined its potential:
    first, an unearned and unforeshadowed twist that broke immersion;
    and second, a misunderstanding of the Hero’s Journey that robbed the adventure of emotional necessity.

    The First Problem: A Twist Without Roots

    In the film’s climax, the characters — and the audience — learn that the strange subterranean world is actually the interior of a colossal living creature, a giant turtle-like being upon which Avalonia rests. This revelation is meant to shock, inspire awe, and deliver a profound message about humanity’s relationship with nature.

    But because no myth, symbol, or clue hinted at such a being, the twist lands like a narrative ambush. The audience isn’t invited to discover; they’re blindsided. Good twists recontextualize what came before, letting earlier mysteries click into place. Here, the lack of foreshadowing transforms revelation into confusion.

    The Fix: Seed the Myth Early

    The story could open with a legend: a Great Being whose slumber sustains the land, whose heartbeat feeds the soil. Jaeger Clade, the bold explorer, would dedicate his life to finding it — believing the myth holds the secret to eternal prosperity. His journey underground would be one of faith, not curiosity.

    Along the way, the explorers would encounter clues — faint pulses in the terrain, bioluminescent veins, creatures behaving like immune cells — subtle hints that this world is more organism than cavern. Jaeger might even mistake massive beasts for the Great Being, only to realize later that the true creature is far grander, and they have been walking inside it all along.

    When the revelation finally comes, it wouldn’t insult intelligence; it would fulfill wonder.

    The Second Problem: An Adventure Without a Wound

    The Hero’s Journey doesn’t begin in paradise; it begins when paradise cracks. The call to adventure emerges from trouble in the heart, from imbalance or loss that demands healing.

    In Strange World, however, the Clade family’s life appears idyllic. Searcher, the son turned farmer, lives peacefully with his wife Meridian and their son Ethan. There is love, stability, and comfort — too much, in fact. When the crops begin to fail, the crisis feels external and mechanical, not emotional. The adventure becomes a mission, not a rite of passage.

    To compound the issue, Meridian joins the expedition, bringing warmth, humor, and harmony into the strange world. Her presence dissolves tension before it can form. The family enters the unknown united — which means there’s nothing to repair, no emotional fracture to parallel the dying crops.

    The Fix: Let Love Stay Behind

    To honor mythic structure, the story needs a wound of love. Perhaps Searcher’s pursuit of safety and order has quietly drained passion from his marriage. Maybe he and Meridian have grown distant — not in conflict, but in quiet neglect. Ethan senses it, unsure which parent’s path to follow.

    The failing crops then become a mirror of the family’s emotional drought — the world’s heartbeat faltering because their own has dimmed. When the expedition begins, Meridian remains behind, representing the love and wholeness Searcher has lost. Her absence creates a yearning that infuses every step of the journey.

    As father, son, and grandfather descend deeper, they face reflections of their inner turmoil — stubbornness, disconnection, pride. Healing the world requires healing themselves. And when they finally understand that the creature’s ailment stems from their own exploitative ways, the resolution becomes both ecological and emotional: to save the Great Being, they must restore love, balance, and humility in their hearts.

    The Mythic Truth: Inner and Outer Worlds Are One

    The greatest adventures are never just about what lies beyond — they are about what lies within.
    In myth, the hero’s outer quest mirrors an inner transformation. When love falters, the world sickens; when harmony is restored, creation flourishes.

    Strange World aimed for this truth but missed the emotional groundwork that would make it resonate. By foreshadowing the Great Being through myth and anchoring the journey in a wound of love, the film could have transformed from spectacle into symbol — a story where healing the land means healing the soul.

    Because in every true hero’s journey, paradise is not found in discovery.
    It is reborn in the heart.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Black Adam (2022): Apologising to the Antihero? Not in This Reworked Outline

    Black Adam arrived with strong momentum. The opening half of the movie had tension, clarity, and spectacle: an ancient antihero awakened, a clash with the Justice Society, and a city caught between freedom and destruction. It worked because the story had rules. Adam was immensely powerful, yet vulnerable to Eternium. He was brutal, yet bound by his own sense of justice. For a while, it felt like the movie had its footing.

    But somewhere in the second half, the logic started to unravel. Adam simply decided to give up his powers, surrendered to the Justice Society, and allowed himself to be locked away. What should have been a dramatic turning point instead felt like a stalling tactic. To make matters worse, the Justice Society — the supposed voice of order and morality — ended up apologizing to Adam later, undercutting their role as the moral backbone of the film.

    It is true, that Adam is different. In traditional storytelling, heroes go through a dark night of the soul. They’re brought low, they repent, and then they rise above their flaws. But Adam is not a traditional hero. He’s an antihero — and in that archetype, the crucial step of apology is deliberately skipped. Antiheroes grow through more or less forceful actions, not through repentance. They are defined by their refusal to bend to the world’s rules. So why would heros then bow to them?

    A Different Way Forward

    Taking this into account, the second half of Black Adam could have unfolded with more bite and more tension. In the beginning, the film established that Adam was vulnerable to Eternium — a weakness that was never used again. In a reimagined outline, Eternium would return as the Justice Society’s trump card, the one way they could bring Adam down.

    The clash would escalate when Adam kills a civilian by accident, or through negligence. Not a faceless extra, but someone we’ve come to know and care about — maybe a friendly figure from Kahndaq who reminded Adam of what he once lost. The moment might even happen in the heat of the battle with Sabbac, where Adam’s destructive methods blur the line between justice and collateral damage.

    This would be the Justice Society’s breaking point. They finally lose their composure and use Eternium to pin Adam down. For once, he is not surrendering of his own will — he’s being forced into a cage. And here comes the crucial twist: the Society tries to force an apology out of him. Hawkman demands it. Doctor Fate attempts to reason with him. Adrianna pleads with compassion. But Adam never apologizes. It’s simply not who he is.

    When Sabbac’s rise threatens them all, the Justice Society realize they have no choice. They need Adam. With no apology in hand, they must settle for releasing him and learning to fight alongside someone they cannot tame. This uneasy truce would carry the tension through the entire third act, so that every moment of their alliance feels unstable, dangerous, and necessary.

    An Antihero’s Apology Without Words

    And while Adam never says “sorry,” he would still show growth in his own way. Near the end, he could repeat one of his casual gestures from earlier in the film — throwing a civilian out of harm’s way with reckless force. But this time, he catches him. Literally. He swoops back, retrieves the civilian, and sets them down safely before resuming the fight. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to an apology, and it says more than words could. Plus, it lets the film close on a slightly humorous beat — Adam doesn’t change who he is, but he learns to temper his destruction just enough to protect the people he claims to fight for.

    Conclusion

    By reworking the second half in this way, the story would hold its tension all the way through. Adam would never be declawed by a hollow surrender, the Justice Society would retain their spine, and the uneasy alliance at the end would feel earned instead of awkward. Most importantly, the antihero’s arc would stay true to its nature — no cheap apologies, only actions that prove he’s capable of growth without losing his edge. That’s the version of Black Adam that could have turned its messy second half into something bold, memorable, and fitting for the antihero it set out to portray.

    Thank you!

    Ira

  • Black Adam (2022): The Crown That Confused the Story

    Black Adam began with promise. The first half of the film carried weight—an antihero awakening after centuries, clashing with the Justice Society, and a city torn between hope and destruction. But somewhere past the midpoint, the story lost its footing. Plot threads tangled, character arcs diffused, and one of the most glaring examples of lost logic was the treatment of the mystical crown of Sabbac.

    The Crown Logic That Didn’t Add Up

    The crown is introduced with an ominous scripture: “Death is the only way to life.” A neat bit of foreshadowing—except the way the film handled it felt like narrative gymnastics. Ishmael, the villain, kidnaps young Amon and taunts Black Adam with the situation, believing Adam will strike him down. Ishmael’s plan? To be killed by Adam while wearing the crown, fulfilling the prophecy and returning as Sabbac.

    But here’s the problem: how would Ishmael know Adam would play along? Why wouldn’t he stage his own death instead of relying on his enemy to do it? It’s a ludicrously fragile plan, hinging on unpredictable choices. And when it does play out, the logic falters even more—Adam kills Ishmael, who resurrects from some distant water pit, while the crown back on the Justice Society’s ship conveniently disintegrates. The geography and mechanics of it all leave the audience scratching their heads.

    Dodging the Cliché, But Losing Clarity

    It’s clear what the writers were trying to do. They didn’t want the tired trope of “villain puts on the MacGuffin and turns into the big bad.” That’s been done in superhero films for decades. But in trying to dodge the cliché, they tied themselves in knots. Instead of clarity and inevitability, the crown subplot became contrived and confusing.

    A Cleaner Alternative: The Crown as a Trap

    What if the crown wasn’t an instant power-up but a deadly trial? A cursed object that kills anyone who dares wear it. That’s why it’s guarded so fiercely—not because it’s a simple key, but because it’s a death sentence. The wearer is reduced to ash. Only then, if the underworld deems the sacrifice worthy, does the person remanifest as Sabbac.

    Imagine how much stronger this would play in the film. Ishmael dons the crown, confident in his destiny. He’s incinerated before everyone’s eyes—a shocking, seemingly final defeat. The Justice Society brings the crown back to their ship and puts it into its showcase, believing the threat ended. But then, in their very midst, Ishmael rematerializes as Sabbac beneath the crown’s resting place, catching them off guard. The resurrection feels immediate, tied to the crown, and organically escalates the tension.

    Why This Fix Works Better

    This alternative keeps the prophecy intact, avoids a hostage contrivance, and doesn’t require Sabbac to emerge from a remote, disconnected location. Instead of the villain’s return feeling like a clumsy afterthought, it becomes the natural consequence of his ambition and the crown’s curse. The Justice Society is implicated too—their decision to “safely” put the crown away is exactly what allows Sabbac to rise.

    Conclusion

    The crown subplot is a small part of Black Adam, but it’s emblematic of where the film stumbled. The first half set up intriguing conflicts, only for the second half to spiral into contrivances and confused logic. By reframing the crown as a deadly trial rather than a vague prophecy puzzle, the story would have avoided backflips, delivered a cleaner resurrection for Sabbac, and tied the climax more closely to the main characters. Sometimes leaning into a trope with a twist is better than dodging it with convolution.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Morbius (2012): Underwhelming – It Lacked One Important Archetype

    Morbius (2022) arrived with a cool idea: a brilliant scientist, Michael Morbius, fights a rare blood disease, finds a radical cure, and turns into a creature of the night. Visually, it had some striking moments. But the movie quickly lost its way, leaving many viewers feeling like they’d wasted two hours. The main problem wasn’t the “living vampire” idea itself, but how the story was told. It rushed things, making the main character flat and wasting a lot of potential.

    One of the biggest head-scratchers was how fast Dr. Morbius became an all-powerful, bloodthirsty vampire. Right after his experiment, he wasn’t just strong; he seemed to master his new abilities instantly. He even walked in daylight, seemingly unfazed, in one confusing scene. This shortcut meant we missed out on any real struggle. We didn’t see the horror or the inner fight that should be central to such a transformation. It left a big empty space where a compelling anti-hero’s journey should have been.

    What Morbius really needed was a sense of determination. The movie skipped the hard, painful journey of a man battling the monster inside him. His strength should have come not from a lab accident, but from his own willpower. If the story had focused on this, Morbius would have been a much more engaging character.

    A Stronger Story: The Path of Determination

    So, let’s imagine Morbius’s origin differently. His experiment still goes wrong, turning him into a monster, but not an instantly powerful one. Instead, he’d be immediately hit with a fierce bloodlust, perhaps even accidentally killing someone in his desperation. This would leave him drowning in guilt. His early days would be a constant, losing battle against this urge. He might try to survive on blood packs, a temporary fix that just highlights his despair and his struggle to hold onto his humanity.

    Meanwhile, his close friend, Milo, would fully embrace the “cure.” He’d become stronger and more ruthless precisely because he gives in to his new desires without hesitation. Milo, free from guilt, would easily overpower Morbius, throwing him around like a rag doll. This physical difference would constantly remind Morbius of “the price to live” and how much his resistance was costing him.

    At his lowest point, exhausted from fighting himself, Morbius would briefly give in to his monstrous side, unleashing raw, terrifying power. The shame of this moment would drive him to a desperate act: turning himself in, ready to face jail or even death, rather than becoming the monster he fears. But in his cell, as he wastes away from lack of blood, a final, incredible surge of determination would push him forward. This powerful act of will, a fight to “defeat himself” and control his curse, would unlock his true, hard-earned strength, allowing him to escape.

    With this newfound control, Morbius would finally confront Milo. Their battle wouldn’t just be about who’s stronger, but about their opposite ways of dealing with the same curse. After the fight, Morbius would be changed, not just physically but morally. He’d find he can now control his urges, needing blood only occasionally. And in those moments, instead of hunting innocent people, he’d stalk the shadows, looking for outlaws, becoming a dark hero who delivers his own kind of justice—a true anti-hero shaped by his incredible determination.

    Why These Changes Matter

    This new story fixes the original movie’s biggest flaws. It turns a boring, overpowered character into a deeply sympathetic and complex figure. It raises the stakes by making Morbius’s real fight against his own nature, which makes us care much more about him. By clearly showing his struggle and ultimate self-mastery, we get a much more satisfying character journey. It gives meaning to his transformation and purpose to his existence. By setting clear rules for his powers and showing the real cost of his desperate cure, this version of Morbius wouldn’t just deliver on its anti-hero promise; it would leave viewers truly moved by a man tragically, yet heroically, driven by his extraordinary determination.

    The Title That Fits

    Finally, a stronger story deserves a title that reflects its true essence. Naming a film solely after a character’s given name, especially one not widely known, emphasizes a single ego, which literally has no value/substance. But in this reimagined narrative, what truly matters isn’t just Michael Morbius, the man, but the profound journey he undertakes. His destiny, shaped by his choices and struggles, is far more significant. That’s why a title like Morbius: The Price to Live perfectly captures the core of his tragic fight, highlighting the high cost of his desperate cure and the determination required to bear his new, monstrous existence.

    Thank you,

    Ira