Arcaneya

Tag: 2024

  • Immaculate (2024): Fixing the Central Contradiction And Adding True Horror

    Immaculate (2024): Fixing the Central Contradiction And Adding True Horror

    Immaculate (2024) is a proper horror film. From its opening scenes in the secluded convent to its oppressive atmosphere and Sydney Sweeney’s anchored performance, the movie delivers genuine tension, body horror, and a sense of dread rarely seen in contemporary horror. For much of the runtime, it feels like a masterclass in suspense. Yet, despite these strengths, the film falters in ways that prevent it from reaching its full terrifying potential.

    The Contradiction at the Heart of the Story

    At the center of the film lies a glaring contradiction: Cecilia is impregnated using DNA allegedly taken from the nail Christ was nailed to the cross. On one hand, the story leans into religious horror, framing her pregnancy as a modern miracle; on the other, it turns into a twisted genetic experiment. The problem is obvious—if the goal was merely to create a child carrying Christ’s DNA, there was no need to convince everyone of an immaculate conception. Conversely, if the film wanted to emphasize a miracle, introducing DNA experiments is not needed.

    Straightening the Story

    The simplest solution to this contradiction is to remove the nail DNA storyline altogether. The horror would become more coherent, grounded, and human: the convent doesn’t need mystical DNA; its evil can exist in the manipulation and violation of its victims alone.

    A More Sinister Plot

    Once the supernatural gimmick is discarded, the story can embrace a darker and far more disturbing truth: Father Sal himself as the source. Imagine a plot where he impregnates women in their sleep, weaponizing faith and secrecy to achieve his twisted ends. This approach heightens the horror on multiple levels. The fear is both physical and psychological—the audience realizes that the true danger comes from someone who wields spiritual authority, and that authority is being perverted into a tool of control. It makes the villain frighteningly human, consistent, and psychotic, a man whose obsession with power and worship drives him to treat both women and faith as instruments for his own ends.

    The Pitfall of Over-Exposition

    Another weakness in the film is the mid-movie villain exposition. This scene undermines tension, renders Cecilia passive, and subtly shortchanges the audience, implying that viewers cannot connect the dots on their own. Horror thrives on what is left unsaid; ambiguity forces the audience to imagine, to infer, and to feel the creeping dread themselves. A stronger approach would have been to let Cecilia gradually uncover the truth—finding the tools for sedation and impregnation, piecing together clues, and ultimately realizing that Sal is behind it. By omitting full explanations, the horror becomes more immersive, sinister, and memorable.

    Elevating the Antagonist

    These changes would elevate Father Sal to an epic level of horror. He becomes a psycho whose obsession with power and worship is so extreme that he attempts to turn his offspring into a messiah, manipulating faith, trust, and innocence to satisfy his ego. To heighten the discomfort, he should not be conventionally attractive; the story works best if his presence is unsettling, someone utterly unfit for the women he targets, reinforcing the grotesque imbalance of desire and authority. This version would create a villain who is terrifying, human, and utterly believable—a man whose cruelty is amplified by the veneer of religious sanctity.

    Immaculate already succeeds in many areas, but stripping away the pseudo-scientific gimmick, embracing a human source of horror, and letting dread unfold gradually would transform the story from compelling to unforgettable. It would make the villain not just a character, but an emblem of obsession, control, and the dark extremes of psychotic ambition.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Inside Out 2 (2024): Awesome Like First Until the Flat Ending

    Pixar’s Inside Out 2 is a worthy successor to its brilliant predecessor. It expands Riley’s inner world with fresh emotions like Anxiety, Envy, and Embarrassment, and once again balances humor, heart, and psychology with an ease few studios can match. For much of its runtime, the film sparkles — insightful, funny, and often deeply moving. But when it reaches its conclusion, the storytelling falters. Instead of delivering an open ending that leaves the audience holding their breath, it pours a pitcher of cool water over the tension.

    The Flat Ending

    The setup is perfect: Riley waits for news about whether she’ll make the hockey team. This is the kind of small-yet-huge moment adolescence is built on — the stakes feel enormous, even if the world at large won’t notice. Yet instead of letting the suspense land, the film undermines itself. Joy reassures Anxiety with a “you can rest now” moment, as if to appease the audience that Riley will be fine regardless. The fellow hockey players also soften the scene with a clumsy line: “If you don’t make it this year, there’s always next year.” That may have been intended as comfort, but it doesn’t ring true to teenage voices, nor does it heighten the stakes. It dilutes them.

    The Charged Alternative

    Imagine a different approach. Riley opens her email, the entire control room goes tense. Every emotion is at the ready behind the switchboard.

    • Joy is hopeful, leaning forward.
    • Sadness is steady, prepared to help Riley accept the outcome.
    • Anxiety is taut but not dismissed — her vigilance has value here.
    • Fear hides under the console, bracing for disaster.
    • Embarrassment shifts uncomfortably, dreading either outcome.

    No speeches. No reassurances. Just a lineup of emotions in their raw readiness, mirroring the weight of Riley’s moment. We cut back to Riley’s face as she reacts — but the list itself remains unseen. The screen fades.

    Why It Matters

    That alternative doesn’t change the ambiguity — we still never find out if Riley made the team — but it transforms it from a flat anticlimax into an electric moment. Instead of being told “it doesn’t matter,” we would feel the truth: Riley’s life is no longer about simple wins or losses. It’s about holding space for uncertainty, for joy and fear and sadness all at once. And that’s what makes Inside Out so brilliant when it’s firing on all cylinders.

    Ambiguity works best not when it soothes us, but when it leaves us buzzing with possibility.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Moana 2 (2024): Robbed of Free-Will Once More. Let’s Fix That Once More

    Disney’s Moana 2 continues the oceanic journey with stunning visuals, lush animation, and songs that carry the same celebratory rhythm of Polynesian culture. The surface shines, but once more the story falters at its core. Just as the first film stripped Moana of her agency by having the ocean itself “choose” her as the special one, this sequel falls into the same trap by anchoring her journey to an ancestral vision that dictates her mission. The effect is the same: Moana becomes the instrument of forces beyond her, rather than an individual with her own choices, doubts, and courage.

    A More Natural Beginning Through Human Choice

    Instead of another imposed vision, the sequel could begin with something both smaller and more profound: Moana’s parents. Around the fire, her father and mother recall an ancient myth whispered across generations, a story of an island said to unite the tribes. Their ancestors once sought this place but failed, and the tale has remained a haunting fragment rather than a promise. In their conversation, they quietly arrive at a painful truth: if anyone could succeed, it might be their daughter—because she has not only proven herself a wayfinder, but she has a bond with the sea that few can explain.

    It is a fragile decision. By speaking of this myth to Moana, they are risking their eldest daughter’s life once more. Yet unlike the visions of the first film, this choice restores the essential weight: they present Moana with the possibility, and she must decide whether to take the burden upon herself. Moana accepts, not because she is commanded, but because she chooses.

    Keeping the Island Shrouded in Ambiguity

    The myth itself must be treated with uncertainty, not as fact. The parents do not claim that the island of Motufetu exists, nor that it would automatically unite the tribes. All they know is that ancient wayfinders charted something beneath a cluster of stars, a place their maps left incomplete. That fragment, and that fragment alone, is enough to stir Moana’s imagination and sense of responsibility.

    This ambiguity gives the quest depth. The stakes are no longer a checklist—find the island, unite the people—but an unfolding mystery. The characters and the audience must wrestle with doubt: is there even an island at all? And if so, what meaning could it truly hold?

    Maui’s Place in the Mystery

    In the original, Maui flatly explains that the island has sunk, which undercuts the narrative tension. In a reimagining, his knowledge would be less definitive. He would recall that sailors once spoke of a place hidden in an eternal mist or storm, where ships vanished without return. Perhaps it was a trap. Perhaps it was land. Perhaps it was nothing but the ocean playing tricks. This tone of skepticism keeps him in character while preserving the mystery.

    Only when Moana and Maui navigate under those very stars do they discover the truth themselves: there is nothing. No island. Just empty sea or swirling mist. In that moment, the legend shatters, and the characters must confront despair. The absence becomes a revelation—Motufetu did exist, but it is gone, swallowed by the ocean long ago.

    Why This Reimagining Matters

    This alternative outline restores Moana’s agency from the very first act, allowing her to make her own decision to set sail. It preserves the myth of Motufetu as something fragile, uncertain, and open to interpretation rather than a matter-of-fact quest object. And it makes the eventual payoff of a successful mission more meaningful, because it is not destiny that drives Moana, but her own choice, her own perseverance, and her own faith in the unknown.

    By embracing ambiguity instead of certainty and not only sing about it, Moana 2 could have turned its sequel journey into something more resonant: a story where the ancestors does not hand down orders, but where a young woman dares to follow a mystery—and in doing so, truly earns her triumph.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Red One (2024): No Presents Under This Tree: Why Red One Fell Flat

    Red One (2024) was poised to become the next big holiday blockbuster—starring Dwayne Johnson, Chris Evans, and J.K. Simmons, with a massive budget and a premise that mashed together Christmas mythology and globe-trotting action. But despite all the shiny wrapping, the movie seriously underdelivered both critically and commercially, underperforming at the box office and leaving many viewers wondering: how did a film with this much star power and holiday appeal miss the mark?

    The answer lies in a tangled mess of tone, logic, and storytelling choices that, while flashy on the surface, failed to respect the foundations of myth, character, and emotional weight.

    The Pitfalls of Untethered Magic

    At its core, Red One suffers from a kind of magical overreach. The world is bursting with Christmas tech and enchanted shortcuts—portals, weaponized snowballs, elves dropping toy cars that instantly grow into real vehicles—but none of it feels grounded. There’s no logic, no cost, no internal rulebook. When magic does everything, it ultimately means nothing.

    The villain Gryla is introduced as an ancient, all-hearing force capable of possessing humans across the world with ease… yet somehow she still needs to hire tech hackers for grunt work. This sort of inconsistency tears at the seams of the story. Why does Santa still ride a sleigh through the sky if elves can teleport with ease? Why are security protocols treated like a joke in a universe where Christmas is clearly a high-stakes cosmic engine of belief?

    Without grounded rules, the magic feels more like a child’s chaotic dream than a world we can invest in. The tension collapses, and with it, any sense of real stakes.

    When Reinventing Icons Backfires

    Another key misstep is the film’s approach to reshaping beloved archetypes without earning those changes. J.K. Simmons, while a talented actor, feels wildly miscast as Santa. Bulked up into a buff grandpa, this version of Saint Nick resembles more of a prepper gym coach than a symbol of wonder and warmth. And when characters are altered this drastically, it needs to be for a strong thematic reason—not just novelty.

    But the most egregious case of miscasting comes with Gryla. Rather than embracing the folklore—a terrifying, bitter old witch who eats children—the film casts a sleek, sexy blonde in the role. She doesn’t radiate dread, envy, or spiritual decay; she looks like she wandered off a perfume commercial. And that robs the character of her essence.

    A true villain like Gryla should be ugly, not just visually, but symbolically—an outward manifestation of inward corruption. Someone who wants to destroy beauty because they feel eternally alienated from it. Casting a glamorous figure in that role not only confuses her motivation, but turns her into a Marvel-lite antagonist without mythic presence.

    The irony? That same actress might have worked perfectly in the role of the hacker—slick, modern, sharp. That would have been a better fit both visually and narratively.

    Flat Arcs in a World Full of Chaos

    Character development in Red One is as superficial as its magical logic. Cal, played by Dwayne Johnson, is the biggest missed opportunity. He’s supposed to be the top-tier Christmas operative, the protector of Santa himself, yet after the first successful breach in centuries—on his watch—he barely flinches. There’s no guilt, no reckoning, no meaningful journey.

    A stronger version of this film would give Cal a full emotional arc. After failing to protect Nick, Cal would spiral—becoming desperate, snapping at his team, feeling the weight of a world that’s starting to lose hope. As Christmas draws near, and belief continues to fade, he would hit rock bottom. But in that darkness, he’d reflect, apologize, and finally reconnect with what he once believed in. That spark of rediscovered faith would allow him to see clearly—finally cracking the mystery and leading the team to rescue Santa not just with strength, but with purpose.

    This arc wouldn’t just redeem Cal—it would re-center the movie around the emotional heart it so desperately lacks.

    A Story That Adults Could Actually Believe In

    The biggest tragedy of Red One is that it didn’t need to be this messy. There’s genuine potential in mixing action-adventure with Christmas myth, but only if the emotional stakes and narrative logic are treated with respect. By reimagining the characters with depth, grounding the magic with consequences, and honoring the psychological truth behind its villains, Red One could have been a rare gem: a holiday movie that works for kids and adults.

    Instead, it feels like a child wrote a letter to Santa and a studio tried to film it verbatim.

    Maybe next time, someone will take the sleigh reins and steer this kind of idea toward something more timeless—and far more magical.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Wicked (2024): Forging a More Earned Path to Green

    Wicked: Part One has landed with a splash, captivating audiences and critics alike with its vibrant spectacle, powerful musical numbers, and the undeniable star power of its lead performers. With a Rotten Tomatoes score that speaks volumes, it’s clear the film resonates broadly, delivering much of the magic fans of the beloved Broadway musical have longed for. Yet, even in its success, Wicked inherits and, by its very premise, reinforces a narrative dilemma that has quietly lingered since the original novel and stage production: the inherent “wickedness” of Elphaba Thropp.

    The story, as currently told, posits that Elphaba is born with green skin, immediately marking her as an “other” and setting her on a path of perceived villainy. While this birth defect is meant to symbolize society’s prejudice and her eventual misunderstanding as the Wicked Witch of the West, it inadvertently introduces a deeply problematic undertone. The very idea that a physical trait, present from birth, could predestine a character to be feared or labelled “wicked” feels narratively unsatisfying and, to many, philosophically flawed. It clashes with the very notion of free will and personal accountability, suggesting a character’s destiny is sealed by biology rather than choice. This presents a unique challenge for a story striving to champion individuality and fight against predetermined roles. If her greenness is innate, her journey becomes less about active transformation and more about reacting to a fate she never chose.

    This intrinsic conflict within the narrative often leads audiences to wish for an alternative resolution for Elphaba. One might argue that it would be far more believable and emotionally resonant to see Elphaba truly struggle with her uniqueness—whether it be her magical abilities or an initially ambiguous physical trait—and eventually own it, transforming into a positive, even admired, figure for her defiance and power. Such an arc would celebrate self-acceptance and show society learning to appreciate what it once feared, aligning perfectly with the musical’s overarching themes of prejudice and acceptance. This version of Elphaba would become a symbol of triumphant individuality, a beacon of hope for all “others” in Oz, truly embodying the spirit of “defying gravity” by carving her own noble path.

    A True Path To Villainy

    However, there is another, perhaps more powerful, narrative road less traveled—one that fully embraces the tragic arc of a villain, making Elphaba’s descent into “wickedness” a chillingly earned consequence of her own choices, rather than an unfortunate destiny. Imagine a version of Oz where Elphaba is born as any other child, perhaps with an extraordinary magical talent, but otherwise outwardly normal. Her journey to becoming the vivid green figure of legend would then be a visceral, physical manifestation of her own moral corruption.

    In this reimagined narrative, Elphaba’s powerful abilities would initially lead her to explore the boundaries of free will—and perhaps, the temptation of control. She might delve into creating a destructive spell or curse, one that allows her to manipulate events or individuals to her advantage. At first, like any brilliant mind unburdened by ethical constraints, she might revel in this new power, enjoying the ease with which she can achieve her desires. She might use it in small, seemingly innocuous ways, then escalating, rationalizing each step as she pushes the limits.

    The first hint of her true descent would manifest as a subtle, almost imperceptible physical change. Her skin might acquire a faint green tinge, a barely noticeable discoloration. This would serve as a grim, outward sign, a consequence of her actions and the internal toxicity of her negative thoughts. It’s a metaphorical poisoning of the liver, as it were, reflecting the spiritual and moral decay within.

    The critical turning point, the true “uprising of a villain,” would occur when the destructive nature of her curse is finally exposed, and she is confronted with the undeniable evidence of her misdeeds. Faced with the truth, instead of admitting fault or seeking redemption, Elphaba would double down on her malevolence. She would lie, cheat, manipulate, and relentlessly weasel herself out of any accountability. This moment would define her as a true antagonist: a refusal to repent, a stubborn unwillingness to amend her ways. Her descent would not be a misunderstanding, but a deliberate choice to embrace self-preservation and power over truth and morality.

    It is at this point, as she fully commits to this path of unrepentant villainy, that her physical transformation would be complete. Her skin would turn a vivid, unmistakable green, an irreversible mark of her soul’s corruption. She doesn’t become wicked because she’s green; she becomes vividly green because she has chosen to be wicked. This makes her transformation not just visually dramatic but profoundly earned, a powerful and tragic symbol of a great talent consumed by her own dark choices.

    This fundamental re-imagining of Elphaba’s core arc would ripple through the entire narrative, imbuing every interaction and choice with deeper meaning. Glinda’s struggle would become even more poignant as she witnesses her friend’s active embrace of darkness. The Wizard’s propaganda would gain more traction because it’s based on a visible, earned consequence. Ultimately, this approach would transform Wicked from a story about a misunderstood hero into a far more complex and compelling exploration of how free will, unchecked ambition, and a refusal to take responsibility can tragically create a true villain, directly leading to the unequivocally evil Wicked Witch of the West from the 1939 film, making her eventual fate a devastating, yet utterly earned, reckoning. This revised arc would also resolve the inherent cognitive dissonance viewers might feel, where the original film famously celebrates the Witch’s demise, by providing a tragic yet justifiable end for a character who actively chose a path of wickedness.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Megalopolis (2024) – The Caesar Salad of a Plot

    I totally understand why Francis Ford Coppola would spend $120 million of his own money on a passion project like Megalopolis. The idea of transforming New York into a New Rome is packed with creative potential, and the film certainly doesn’t disappoint in its worldbuilding. It features striking characters, realtively deep conversations, and believable political tension that pays homage to ancient Rome. But when it comes to storytelling, the film feels scattered and unfocused.

    Ok, we have a beautiful new world—but no real story. So instead of creating a story around a lead character, the Coppola seems to have picked a handful of familiar tropes, mixed them together, and built some sort of a narrative around those. The result feels like a Caesar salad of the cheapest kind—some parts are indeed juicy and flavorful, but much of it ends up being tossed out just to get through it.

    Here’s a quick breakdown of the tropes that, in my opinion, worked — and those that didn’t and then we’ll discuss why.

    ✅ Worked well:

    • Forbidden love
    • Love triangle
    • Power struggle / hunger for money

    ❌ Fell flat:

    • Hero with supernatural powers from the get-go
    • “The special one” or the Messiah figure
    • The resurrection

    An especially unrelatable protagonist

    Cesar is the quintessential “special one” — not only does he have the extraordinary ability to stop time (for some reason that Coppola was fascinated about but adds nothing to the story), but he also cheats death itself, ultimately surviving a gunshot to the face without a scar. When was the last time we saw a character so powerful and invincible from the very start?

    He’s portrayed almost as a messiah figure, a visionary savior meant to reshape the world, but this mythic status ultimately makes him feel less like a real person and more like an untouchable symbol — powerful, but frustratingly unrelatable for anyone in the audience.

    The questionable love

    Julia’s love for Cesar doesn’t begin as a genuine connection but rather as admiration for his extraordinary powers, something she openly expresses. She seems captivated more by the idea of Cesar as a messianic figure—the “special one” who holds the fate of the world in his hands—than by the man himself. This isn’t true love, yet the film never addresses this and portrays her feelings as sincere, which makes it all especially confusing.

    The double disconnect

    I would call this a double disconnect. Even if I could somehow relate to Cesar—which I cannot—there’s an additional hurdle: the love he receives from Julia feels fake and unearned. This second emotional gap makes it even harder for us in the audience to invest in his journey, as the relationship, which should humanize him, instead reinforces his distance and untouchability.

    Instead of feeling happy for the two and enjoying the moment, the audience is left wondering: Do I also have to bend time and cheat death to earn this kind of beautiful love? Or maybe, how many guys like that even exist for me out there?

    What’s the answer to that?

    Well? Weeeellll?

    The non-symbolic ressurection

    In most stories, resurrection is symbolic—a transformative moment where the hero sheds their ego and steps into a greater version of themselves. It’s about growth, humility, and confronting one’s inner limitations. But in Megalopolis, Cesar’s resurrection skips the introspection. It doesn’t mark a shift toward a higher self—it simply reaffirms that he is the chosen one, the exceptional being above all others.

    These are the storytelling elements I thought were worth pointing out. The rest of the movie, like I said, is a salad to nitpick. More precisely—an unsalvageable salad with no redemption arc though I’m never a disbeliever. It’s just that I didn’t even order a salad — I came for popcorn and a soda.

    Ira