Arcaneya

Tag: 2025

  • Superman (2025): Did James Gunn Snuck In Some Politics Into the Plot?

    James Gunn is, without question, one of the most imaginative directors in modern Hollywood. He has that rare talent to blend wit, warmth, and spectacle into a rhythm that’s effortlessly watchable. From the opening moments of Superman (2025), you feel that signature touch. The banter between Clark Kent and Lois Lane sparkles. Their private newsroom conversations feel intimate and alive. Gunn’s attention to small human details — the humor tucked into glances, the way ordinary people react to extraordinary situations — gives the first act a pulse of authenticity. For a while, it seems like Gunn has done the impossible: he’s brought Superman back down to Earth.

    The early scenes promise a film that understands what made the character iconic in the first place — not just power, but presence. Clark feels human, endearing, and believable. You lean in because you care about him as a man first, hero second. For many viewers, these quiet moments of charm and humor outshine the rifts and skybeams that inevitably follow.

    And then, somewhere past the midpoint, the narrative begins to unravel. The human heartbeat gives way to the thunder of CGI. The story starts bending not around Superman’s choices, but around the choices made for him. In a proper hero’s journey, the protagonist gets into trouble because of his own limitations — a lapse of judgment, a flaw of pride, an untested ideal. These errors summon the storm, forcing the hero to wrestle with consequence and rise renewed. But Gunn’s Superman never truly stumbles. He doesn’t fall from grace because of his own doing; instead, he’s framed, misunderstood, and manipulated by forces outside himself. He becomes, in essence, a victim of circumstance.

    Lex Luthor masterminds a false narrative to turn the world against him, and Superman’s role becomes largely reactive. He defends, endures, and rescues, but rarely chooses in ways that redefine him. Even the final resolution isn’t the fruit of his insight or strategy; it’s his coworkers and allies who piece together the truth and expose Luthor’s deceit. The Justice League ensemble handles much of the heavy lifting, both literally and narratively. Superman, meanwhile, moves rubble, shields civilians, and ensures buildings don’t collapse — noble, yes, but narratively inert. By the time he leans in for the climactic kiss with Lois, it feels unearned, almost perfunctory — one of the least deserved kisses in recent cinematic memory. It’s as if the movie wanted the emotional payoff of a full heroic arc without ever letting its hero earn it.

    This creative choice leaves the audience with an odd emptiness. Superman remains flawless, misunderstood, and vindicated — but unchanged. And in mythic storytelling, transformation is the soul of heroism. Without it, even the brightest savior can feel strangely distant.

    Yet beneath the spectacle and charm, there’s a thread running quietly through the film that’s hard to ignore. Superman is portrayed as an alien outsider, struggling for acceptance in a world quick to fear difference. Lex Luthor, by contrast, is painted as the cynical nationalist — mistrusting, condescending, determined to expose the foreigner’s flaws. The dynamic feels deliberate: the noble immigrant versus the native skeptic. In today’s polarized climate, that metaphor echoes real-world political tensions, whether intended or not. To some viewers, Luthor’s disdain rings familiar, mirroring rhetoric from the right that fears unchecked immigration. To others, Superman’s grace feels like a plea from the left for empathy and inclusion.

    Now, perhaps this is all coincidence — after all, Superman’s immigrant symbolism is as old as the character himself. But one can’t help imagining James Gunn, ever the clever craftsman, smiling to himself as he sprinkles in a theme that might play like a subtle wink to progressive audiences. Maybe he didn’t write it to preach, but to giggle — to earn knowing nods from left-leaning circles and a few admiring glances from politically-minded brunettes in the back row.

    Whether intentional or subconscious, the result is a story that feels tilted toward commentary. Superman, the innocent outsider, suffers unjustly; Lex, the fearful insider, becomes the embodiment of intolerance. It’s not that the message is wrong — compassion over fear is timeless — but by shaping the conflict around ideological archetypes rather than personal choices, the film trades mythic depth for moral certainty.

    And that, ultimately, is what keeps Superman (2025) from soaring into true greatness. A true hero’s journey isn’t about being right or just from the start. It’s about stumbling, seeing one’s own shadow, and choosing humility. The climax shouldn’t hinge on clearing a name but on clearing the heart. The most moving heroes don’t save the world through brute force; they save their world — their relationships, their integrity, their capacity to love. When they learn to forgive, to trust again, to act from grace rather than pride — that’s when the universe shifts. That’s when the kiss is deserved.

    Superman (2025) is witty, heartfelt, and watchable, but it stops just short of myth. Gunn gives us a savior adored, not a soul transformed. And in stories that aim for timelessness, it’s not the mightiest who win our hearts — it’s the ones who fall, grow, and rise loving more than before.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Jurassic World: Rebirth (2025) – From Hollow Premise to Human Story: A Reimagining With Real Heart

    The latest entry in the Jurassic franchise, Jurassic World: Rebirth, arrives with all the spectacle one might expect: sleek dinosaurs, high-budget visuals, and a familiar blend of mercenaries, scientists, and innocent bystanders thrown into prehistoric chaos. To its credit, the film is watchable. The equatorial, water-heavy setting gives it a fresher visual texture than previous installments, and the dino action—likely borrowing tech from Avatar: The Way of Water—is impressively rendered. The film moves fast, looks good, and never quite bores.

    But beneath the surface, Rebirth struggles with serious narrative pitfalls. Its emotional core is murky, its character motivations paper-thin, and its central premise—harvesting dinosaur DNA to cure heart disease—is both scientifically implausible and thematically hollow. While this idea might pass as sci-fi flavoring, the story treats it as the moral engine of the plot. And that’s where things fall apart. Even if such a miracle cure were possible, the audience instinctively knows it’s a fantasy. No one believes that draining a Quetzalcoatlus will stop a global health crisis. That disconnect becomes more obvious as the film progresses—and no amount of roaring reptiles can distract from it.

    The protagonist, Zora, played by Scarlett Johansson, is introduced as a grizzled, high-paid operative offered a ridiculous $10 million to complete the mission. While she looks the part, the writing leans heavily into “movie logic.” Her enormous paycheck, elite skills, and invincible posture create a “special trope” character who never quite feels vulnerable. This weakens the tension, because the audience doesn’t see themselves in her. We aren’t watching someone survive—we’re watching someone perform survival. Even the stranded family caught in the danger zone, who should have grounded the story emotionally, never quite earn our investment. There are simply too many characters and not enough meaningful time spent with any of them.

    And yet… the core idea is not beyond repair. In fact, it holds the potential for a much stronger, more emotional, and thematically satisfying version of the story. What follows is an alternate outline—a reimagining that keeps the heart disease premise, but transforms it from a weak plot device into a vessel for a richer, more human story.

    A Reimagined Story: Heart of the Wild

    In this version, Zora is still offered the $10 million bounty: $1M in advance, and $9M if the supposed miracle cure is found. The mission is sold as the breakthrough that could change medicine forever. Though skeptical, Zora accepts. She leads a team into a restricted dinosaur wilderness to retrieve blood samples from several key species. Along the way, they discover a stranded civilian family. Among them is a quiet but skilled surgeon—the father—who later proves crucial to the story.

    As they trek through the jungle and across rivers, they collect samples while facing the usual prehistoric dangers. One standout moment involves retrieving a sample from a flying dinosaur. During the encounter, a baby from its nest falls—Zora’s team rescues it, and the massive parent watches warily but lets them go unharmed. It’s a subtle but powerful moment of mutual understanding between species.

    The surgeon later saves a crew member’s life by operating in the field, building a bond with Zora and establishing a sense of real-world skill amidst the chaos.

    Back at base camp, the scientific team analyzes the blood samples—and discovers that they’re not enough. The regenerative properties they hoped for aren’t present. The team is deflated. But then, a corporate executive on the mission proposes a more invasive solution: the heart serum must come directly from the heart of a living dinosaur.

    This sparks a moral debate. Most of the crew want to abandon the mission. But Zora, tempted by the full payout and needing to justify her choices, argues for continuing. She convinces the surgeon to accompany her—they’ll need him to extract the serum surgically.

    They return into the wild with one target in mind: the same flying dinosaur they previously spared.

    What follows is a trek fraught with dangers, internal conflict, and growing doubt. Just when they are cornered by predators, the flying dinosaur intervenes and saves them—returning the favor from before. Now face to face with the creature they came to kill, Zora and the surgeon hesitate. How can they murder something intelligent, majestic, even benevolent, for a serum that might not work? If the blood failed, why believe the heart would be different?

    They change their minds. The killing tools are destroyed. The mission is abandoned.

    And for the first time, Zora is free. Not rich, not victorious—but human. She returns with the surgeon and the rest of the survivors, wounded but whole. The cure wasn’t found, but something else was.

    As they sail away from the island, the conversation turns quiet. Zora and the surgeon sit together on the deck. They embrace.

    “Do you know what the best heart medicine is?” she asks.

    He smiles. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

    The music swells. The baby dinosaur soars overhead. The camera pulls back. The sun sets.

    The Jurassic Park theme plays—not in triumph, but in peace.

    Finishing thoughts

    This version of Jurassic World: Rebirth doesn’t reject the spectacle—it honors it. But it anchors that spectacle in something far more valuable: character growth, moral tension, and emotional connection. It treats the dinosaurs not just as monsters or test subjects, but as living symbols of nature’s complexity and power. And it gives the audience a protagonist who learns, suffers, and earns her transformation—not just her paycheck.

    Because at the end of the day, the greatest miracle in a Jurassic movie isn’t scientific—it’s emotional. It’s when something wild breaks through something wounded. When the human heart changes, even if the world doesn’t.

    Thank you!

    Ira

  • Jupiter Ascending (2015): The Arc That Could Have Been

    When Jupiter Ascending was first announced, expectations soared. A big-budget, original sci-fi epic from the Wachowskis — the visionary minds behind The Matrix — was rare in a landscape saturated with sequels, reboots, and comic book franchises. With its sprawling galactic dynasties, lavish visuals, and a star-studded cast, it had all the ingredients to be the next space opera phenomenon.

    Instead, it crashed under the weight of its own ambition.

    Critics called it convoluted, messy, and hollow. Audiences found it difficult to follow, emotionally distant, and ultimately forgettable. And while the movie has since found a small cult following, it never lived up to its potential. Beneath the noise, there was a decent story — clever sci-fi concepts about reincarnation, genetic dynasties, and the commodification of life — but that story never found its footing.

    And at the heart of that failure was one fatal flaw: Jupiter Jones herself.

    A Hero With No Journey

    Jupiter is introduced as a humble maid, scrubbing toilets and resenting her life. But rather than being bitter or restless, she’s strangely… gracious. Humble, kind, self-effacing — already displaying the maturity and wisdom of someone who’s supposedly going to grow. When she learns she’s not only special, but the genetic reincarnation of a space queen and rightful owner of Earth, she reacts with mild confusion, but little conflict. She declines a throne she didn’t ask for, gets whisked from place to place, and mostly lets others explain what’s happening.

    The issue isn’t that she’s unlikable — it’s that she’s underwritten. She’s passive, reactive, and never really seems to want anything, which makes it hard to invest in her journey. Her character arc is essentially flat. There’s no temptation, no internal struggle, and no transformation.

    In a genre that thrives on evolution — Luke learning the Force, Neo waking up from the Matrix, even Sarah Connor becoming the warrior her future demands — Jupiter doesn’t evolve. She just floats through.

    What Her Arc Should Have Been

    There’s a version of Jupiter Ascending that could have worked beautifully. And it starts by flipping Jupiter’s starting point.

    Instead of being humble and kind, Jupiter should begin the story resentful and selfish. Not cartoonishly evil — just a person beaten down by life, desperate for more. She hates her job. She envies the rich. She dreams of luxury. She’s tired of being invisible and underappreciated.

    So when someone tells her she’s galactic royalty? That she owns a planet and is heir to unimaginable wealth and power? She wants it. She grabs it. She believes she deserves it.

    This version of Jupiter would enter the world of the Abrasax siblings not as an outsider, but as someone who resonates with their twisted values. She’d feel at home with their decadence, their obsession with power, their casual disregard for “lesser” lives. For a while, she might even start to become one of them.

    But over time, she’d see the cost. She’d witness the exploitation behind the empire. She’d discover that the very luxury she once craved is built on suffering. And slowly, painfully, she’d begin to change.

    The climax wouldn’t be about rejecting a throne she never wanted. It would be about walking away from one she once desired — and finally choosing humility, responsibility, and connection over control.

    In the end, she wouldn’t just inherit the Earth. She’d become one with it. Grounded. Human. Changed.

    Why It Matters

    Great sci-fi stories don’t just wow us with visuals or elaborate lore — they anchor us with human truth. They give us heroes who reflect our flaws and show us how to rise above them.

    The tragedy of Jupiter Ascending is that it had the ingredients. The bones of an epic were all there — vast empires, moral complexity, even a spiritual subtext about identity and value. But without a strong, evolving character at the center, it never landed.

    If Jupiter had truly changed — if she had started selfish and learned selflessness through loss, through temptation, through revelation — she could have been one of the great sci-fi heroines.

    Instead, we got a queen with no crown, no fire, and no journey.

    Thank you for reading and following! 🙂

    Ira