Arcaneya

Tag: alternative ending

  • 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

  • The Joneses (2009): What’s Up With the Rushed Ending? Let’s Do It Right

    Derrick Borte’s The Joneses arrived with a razor-sharp premise. A perfectly curated fake family moves into suburbia, not for love or belonging, but to sell consumer envy by living it. They flaunt luxury cars, designer clothes, the latest gadgets, all while pretending to be the ideal neighbours. It’s a satire that feels uncomfortably close to truth. Yet for all its wit, the ending of the film rushes past its own setup. Steve, the father figure played by David Duchovny, rebels against the system in a single stroke, and Kate, Demi Moore’s icy matriarch, suddenly joins him as they drive off together. The resolution is quick, convenient, and unearned.

    But what if the ending unfolded more slowly, letting the weight of its themes come crashing down? What if the suicide that rocks the neighbourhood wasn’t just a byproduct of envy, but the direct consequence of Steve’s own actions? In that unraveling lies a sharper, more haunting story.

    The Fatal Sale

    From the beginning, Steve is the weak link in the Joneses operation. Unlike his polished “family,” he struggles to weave product pitches smoothly into everyday conversation. His attempts are clumsy, his eagerness too obvious. Kate scolds him, the “children” roll their eyes, and he is left desperate to prove he belongs.

    So he pushes harder. Zeroing in on a vulnerable neighbour, Steve goes all-in on a sales pitch. Maybe it’s the promise of a luxury car, or a set of golf clubs, or some status symbol that glimmers with importance. Against the odds, his effort works. The neighbour caves, makes the purchase, and for the first time, Steve feels successful.

    That triumph is short-lived. The neighbour has overextended himself, chasing an image he cannot afford, and the financial strain spirals into despair. When the man takes his own life, the illusion of harmless consumerism shatters. Steve is no longer complicit in a vague system. He is directly responsible.

    The Walls Closing In

    The tragedy leaves Steve shellshocked. He cannot admit his role, but he cannot keep going either. Every time he tries to pitch a product, the words die in his throat. His confidence evaporates, his charm falters. The Joneses machine still hums around him, Kate sharper than ever, the company pressing for results, but Steve is broken.

    The neighbours, once dazzled by the family, begin to sense something is off. Whispers ripple through the community. Envy curdles into resentment. Slowly, the walls close in on Steve, and he becomes the fracture line that threatens to break the entire façade.

    The Confession

    It doesn’t end with a heroic speech but with a collapse. At a neighbourhood gathering, Steve blurts out the truth. He admits they are actors, salespeople in disguise, and worse, that his own success helped push a neighbour to his death. The confession is messy, awkward, filled with guilt. He doesn’t deliver it to inspire change but because he can no longer hold the weight of the lie.

    It is repentance, not rebellion.

    The Aftermath

    The company reacts with cold efficiency. The Joneses are reassigned, a new “father” slotted into Steve’s vacant role. Kate does not look back. Her devotion to the illusion is too deep, her fear of losing everything too strong. She chooses the safety of the system over the risk of authenticity.

    Steve is left behind, disgraced but oddly lighter. The neighbours, stunned by his honesty, don’t shun him entirely. One offers him a modest, sincere job — something small, unremarkable, and real. For the first time, Steve earns without selling envy, and though it is humble, it is human.

    A Story That Lingers

    This reimagined ending would allow The Joneses to breathe, to close with the same incisive power that its premise promised. The suicide becomes the turning point of Steve’s arc, tying him directly to the consequences of his ambition. The walls closing in on him build natural tension, and the final fracture delivers not a neat romantic escape, but a bittersweet truth.

    Steve learns, too late, that envy is not a foundation for life. He sought validation by making others jealous, only to discover that real worth can only be earned honestly. Meanwhile, the machine rolls on, indifferent, installing a new Joneses family for the next neighbourhood. The satire deepens.

    Instead of fading out on an unbelievable reconciliation, the story would end with a man stripped of illusions, standing face-to-face with sincerity for the first time. And that, far more than a ride into the sunset, is the ending The Joneses deserved.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • I Feel Pretty (2018): A Small Third-Act Change to Make Its Big Message Hit Home

    I Feel Pretty is one of those films whose premise alone can carry it beyond its flaws. The idea that a single shift in self-perception — whether sparked by a knock on the head or sheer willpower — can completely transform how someone experiences life is both funny and deeply uplifting. Even when the humor leans a little broad or the pacing feels uneven, the message shines through: confidence can change your world. For anyone who doubts themselves, the movie offers something priceless — a playful, if exaggerated, reminder that life looks different when you dare to believe you’re enough.

    Still, the film left some viewers wanting a deeper connection. While Renee’s newfound boldness provides plenty of comedy, the story sometimes feels like it hovers on the surface. The head injury gimmick, though serviceable, keeps the transformation at arm’s length, as if confidence is a magical trick rather than something Renee can truly claim as her own. By the time she regains her senses, her journey toward lasting self-worth feels a little too tidy, the emotional stakes smoothed over by a quick speech and happy resolution.

    But I Feel Pretty doesn’t need an overhaul — just a subtle shift to make its ending hit harder. Imagine if, after Renee hits her head a second time and loses her illusion of beauty, she falls into a genuine crisis. Ethan, noticing her change, gently says, “You seem different today.” Renee, spiraling, assumes he’s talking about her looks and withdraws into herself. When Ethan adds, “You’re not the girl I fell in love with,” it cuts even deeper — not because of her appearance, but because the confident, vibrant woman he fell for has vanished. Renee, blinded by her insecurity, doesn’t hear what he really means and flees in tears.

    This misunderstanding could send her into a more personal spiral, echoing her old fears as she tries to “fix” herself the only way she knows how: rushing to change her body, working herself into exhaustion, chasing perfection. It’s not played for laughs but as a reflection of how fragile newfound confidence can be when it’s tied only to how we look. Yet by the end, Renee finds the courage to confront Ethan — not to win him back, but to clear the air. In their conversation, she realizes that his love was never about her looks; it was about the spark she carried when she believed in herself.

    This added layer wouldn’t change the soul of I Feel Pretty but would make the conclusion far more resonant. Instead of Renee’s arc ending with a speech and a smile, it would show that true confidence isn’t something handed to you by magic or a trick of perception. It’s a choice, something you reclaim even when the mirror feels unkind. The movie’s humor and heart would stay intact, but its final message would linger: believing in yourself isn’t about a perfect reflection — it’s about embracing yourself, flaws and all, and carrying that light forward no matter how many times life knocks you down.

    Thanks,

    Ira