Arcaneya

Tag: alternative opening

  • 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

  • Moana (2016): A Masterpiece with a Small But Obvious Crack

    Disney’s Moana is one of those rare animated films that feels timeless the moment you watch it. From its lush animation and breathtaking water effects to its heartfelt songs and vibrant cultural grounding, it truly soars on almost every level. Moana herself stands as one of Disney’s strongest heroines—courageous, compassionate, and grounded in her people’s traditions while yearning to discover the wider world. The movie is endlessly watchable, emotionally rich, and bursting with life.

    Yet beneath all its strengths, there lies one structural weakness in the story that subtly undercuts its tension: the “chosen one” trope. It’s the one crack worth pointing out. One might find other reasons to critique the story, like the expositions, the MacGuffin (Heart of Te Fiti), and the ungrounded magic logic, however I think those were put together rather well. Well, maybe another day.

    The Problem of Being Chosen

    In the film’s original version, the ocean selects Moana when she is only a child, presenting her with the Heart of Te Fiti in a way that feels definitive and irreversible. From that point forward, Moana is marked as the destined savior of her people, having no free-will of her own. While inspiring on the surface, this removes much of the story’s suspense. If the ocean itself has chosen Moana, then her success feels preordained. Every trial she faces is softened by the audience’s knowledge that she cannot truly fail—the ocean is her safety net, guiding and even rescuing her when danger looms.

    The result is that Moana, a character who ought to be defined by her choices and resilience, becomes strangely passive at times. The ocean’s intervention robs her of some of her agency, and the story loses some of its edge.

    Reintroducing Ambiguity

    The solution lies in subtle changes at the very beginning of the film—changes that restore uncertainty, choice, and tension to Moana’s journey. What if, instead of the ocean directly choosing her, the possibility of her destiny were left ambiguous?

    In this reimagined version, when Moana is only two years old, she toddles down to the shore and finds her grandmother dancing with the ocean. Moana giggles and joins in, imitating her grandmother’s playful movements. But then something unexpected happens: the ocean responds to Moana more noticeably than it ever did to Grandma. The waves shimmer, curl, and dance back at her. Grandma is delighted but also intrigued, sensing something unusual yet not daring to call it fate.

    Later, when Moana is about six or seven, another moment deepens the mystery. She plays by the beach, chasing shells and laughing as the waves swell toward her. For a heartbeat, the water seems to beckon her in, but Moana grows nervous and runs back home as the tide recedes. When the waves pull back, Grandma notices something remarkable: the Heart of Te Fiti now lies in the sand, glimmering exactly where Moana had been playing moments before.

    Moana does not see it. She has already dashed away. Grandma, however, picks it up and studies it, a look of awe and wonder on her face. In that moment, she begins to suspect—but never truly knows—that Moana may be destined for something greater. She becomes the silent steward of the stone, holding on to it until Moana is ready to choose the path for herself.

    Agency Restored, Ending Enriched

    With these simple adjustments, the story regains its essential tension. Moana is not unshakably “chosen” from the start. The ocean doesn’t force destiny upon her—it merely responds. The ambiguity allows the audience to share Grandma’s uncertainty: is Moana truly the one, or is it all coincidence?

    This reframing transforms Moana’s journey into one of agency rather than inevitability. She is not carried along by fate; she earns her triumph. When she confronts Te Kā, restores the Heart, and sails home, the victory is all the more powerful because it was never guaranteed.

    Most importantly, the emotional payoff is enriched. By letting the ocean respond to Moana rather than the other way around, her actions, bravery, and growth carry the weight of the story. The conclusion—her celebrated return—feels fully earned, not just foretold.

    In this version, Moana remains the dazzling masterpiece we know, but with one key difference: its heroine shines even brighter because she wins not by destiny, but by choice.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Purge (2013): Straightening Act 1 for Maximum Tension and Moral Irony

    The Purge (2013) has a brilliant concept: a society where all crime is legal for twelve hours. Yet the original execution rushes straight into purge night, leaving audiences with standard “someone might kill you for no reason” thrills rather than truly earned suspense. The movie barely establishes the world, the characters’ motivations, or the tension that should naturally build before the purge begins. In this article, we focus on straightening Act 1, showing how a slower, layered introduction could make the story richer, funnier, and morally compelling.

    Building the Mundane World Before Chaos

    A classic story introduction contrasts the ordinary with the extraordinary. In a tightened Act 1, the days before the purge would be filled with subtle tension and dark humor. Two girls gossiping about a breakup idea illustrate this perfectly: “Are you absolutely insane… one week before the purge?” one warns. “Don’t worry… three days before, I’m gone to a place nobody knows,” the other replies coolly. Even mundane decisions feel like life-or-death choices, and the audience senses a world teetering on the edge of chaos.

    The neighborhood itself hums with tension. Micro-resentments, petty grudges, and whispered judgments ripple through interactions. Every glance, comment, or minor slights carry weight — foreshadowing that these ordinary frustrations will explode during the purge.

    Churches Full of Anxiety

    Two days before the purge, churches are packed to the brim. Families, neighbors, and anxious individuals fill pews, candles flicker, and soft organ music underscores collective unease. Ethan Hawke’s character is there, lingering long after the service. He isn’t merely seeking spiritual comfort; he’s wrestling with guilt over a professional misstep. Earlier this year, he badmouthed a competing consulting company, indirectly causing harm. Sitting quietly, he contemplates his moral failures while the congregation murmurs and neighbors exchange subtle, loaded glances. Even before violence strikes, tension pervades every interaction.

    Ethan’s Morally Ambiguous Motivation

    In this version, Ethan isn’t simply a protective dad — he’s a flawed, morally grey figure. He runs a consulting service, advising neighbors on purge survival, and profits handsomely from their fear and paranoia. He has bought himself protective equipment, but the irony is that on purge night, he locks his neighbors out, leaving them vulnerable.

    This setup layers the story with moral tension. Ethan’s paranoia isn’t just personal; it’s fueled by guilt and opportunism. His internal conflict surfaces in subtle ways: at work, a colleague confronts him about the earlier incident, urging him to apologize. Ethan snaps defensively: “I have nothing to apologize for!” The audience sees a man struggling with hubris, ethics, and survival — a far more compelling protagonist than a generic protective father.

    Paranoia and Dark Humor

    One day before the purge, a car parks across Ethan’s street. He immediately suspects revenge from the competitor company he undermined, his paranoia peaking. The camera closes on the car… only to reveal two junkies smoking pot, oblivious to him. This moment combines dark humor with character development, highlighting Ethan’s obsessive lens and building tension without immediate violence.

    Setting Up Purge Night

    All of these elements — neighborhood micro-resentments, high-strung churchgoers, office confrontations, and the suspicious car — converge to build psychological and moral tension. By the time purge night arrives, the stakes feel earned: it’s not just about surviving masked intruders, but about a community simmering with grudges, a protagonist with secrets and guilt, and moral consequences that will explode in darkly ironic ways.

    Imagine the tension if Ethan were hiding even more from his wife — perhaps a mistress, adding personal stakes on top of moral ones. Suddenly, every choice he makes before and during the purge feels consequential, suspenseful, and even absurdly funny. A straightened Act 1 like this transforms the film from a rushed horror concept into a layered, psychologically rich thriller, where each moment of pre-purge tension pays off in chaos that is both thrilling and morally complex.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Golden Compass (2007): Finding True North – How to Fix Film’s Narrative Flaws

    The 2007 film adaptation of The Golden Compass (also known as Northern Lights in some regions) grappled with the immense challenge of bringing Philip Pullman’s sprawling, philosophically dense, and deeply cherished His Dark Materials trilogy to the screen. Despite its grand ambitions, the movie largely failed to capture the essence of the awesome source material, ultimately leaving both fans and newcomers disconnected. A core issue lay in its lightning-fast pacing for an entirely new world paradigm, which rushed through crucial introductions and character motivations, opting for expository shortcuts over organic storytelling.

    The Pitfalls of an Unpolished Script

    The film’s most glaring failures often stemmed from its unpolished script, particularly its reliance on data dumping and a clumsy handling of the “Special One” trope. The narrative immediately declared Lyra as uniquely capable of reading the Golden Compass, discrediting her journey and alienating the audience. This was compounded by a second “Special One” trope: the witches’ prophecy directly naming Lyra as pivotal to future events. Consequently, Lyra received the compass based solely on these unearned declarations, rather than demonstrated ability, further diminishing audience connection.

    Moreover, the script suffered from a pervasive lack of proper foreshadowing and clear motivations. Consider Lyra and Roger’s initial conversation on the roof about the “Gobblers” and disappearing children. This critical interaction, meant to establish a terrifying threat, instead came across as children’s vivid imagination, devoid of any genuine emotion or palpable fear. When Roger was later kidnapped, the absence of this emotional groundwork meant the audience couldn’t truly grasp the magnitude of the threat or Lyra’s personal stakes.

    Another stark example of the unpolished script’s jarring nature occurred at the dinner table. Mrs. Coulter inexplicably divulged a bizarre “secret” to Lyra about ice bears and their king wanting a daemon. This random piece of world-building trivia, delivered with a forced air of clandestine importance by a supposedly sophisticated manipulator, felt utterly out of place. This was followed by Mrs. Coulter convincing the college master to let Lyra accompany her North, before Lyra had even expressed her own desire to go. This made Lyra’s pivotal journey into the second act feel passive and disconnected from her agency. Problems like these persisted throughout the movie, robbing the narrative of tension, emotional depth, and logical progression.

    Crafting a Better Groundwork: A Proposed Reworking

    To rectify these foundational issues, a different groundwork is essential, focusing on organic world-building, nuanced character development, and earned stakes.

    The film’s opening could immediately immerse the audience without resorting to exposition. Imagine a wide shot of children playing in a vibrant meadow, gradually narrowing to focus on two daemons playfully switching forms. In the background, the children’s casual chatter, like “Tell your daemon to stop picking on mine,” would organically introduce daemons as an accepted part of life, effortlessly conveying their nature and bond. This playful scene would then pivot sharply: the children, still playing chase and innocently joking about “Gobblers,” would race back towards town. However, upon arrival, the chilling reality would set in—one of them would be missing. All hell would then break loose, with genuine fear about “being gobbled” erupting through the community. A minute or two of screen time could be dedicated to the frantic search for the missing child, making their disappearance a tangible, terrifying event, regardless of whether they’re found. This would firmly establish the pervasive Gobbler threat from the outset.

    Lyra herself would be one of those children playing, frantically joining the search for her friend. Perhaps she would even be the one who intuitively finds him, showcasing her extraordinary perception. This demonstration of her intuition would naturally set up her unique abilities. Then, Lyra could quickly invent a clever lie to get her friend out of trouble, immediately establishing her cunning and resourcefulness under pressure—a core aspect of her character.

    Crucially, we need to dismantle the direct “Special One” trope that plagued the original film. Instead of Lyra being explicitly named in a prophecy, the witches’ prophecies would speak more broadly of “a child whose intuition is beyond others.” Subsequently, as the scholars at Jordan College witness Lyra’s demonstrated abilities (like finding the missing child), rumors would subtly begin to circulate amongst them, speculating that she might be the child described in the ancient texts. This would allow the audience, having already witnessed Lyra’s intuition, to participate in the speculation, constantly asking themselves, “Is it her or not?” throughout the movie. This approach makes her “specialness” earned through observed abilities rather than an arbitrary declaration, and transforms the prophecy into a lingering source of intrigue.

    Furthermore, the alethiometer’s introduction could be vastly improved. In the original movie, the Master gave Lyra the compass simply because she was destined to go North with Mrs. Coulter. A more compelling approach would be for the Master to give Lyra the compass earlier, perhaps due to the increasing desperation to find the missing children. The Master, aware of Lyra’s demonstrated, nascent intuition and the circulating rumors, might gamble on her unique gift. He would give her the compass, asking if she could use it to locate the missing children. The alethiometer wouldn’t provide clear, immediate answers, but rather speculative or hazy clues suggesting the children are somewhere North. This would provide Lyra with a much clearer, deeply personal motivation for wanting to go North (to find Roger and the other children), diluting the incredible coincidence that everyone just happens to be in the Arctic. Lyra’s agency, conveyed through her burning desire to find her friends, would be clearly established in her conversations with Mrs. Coulter, rather than her journey North feeling passive and arbitrary.

    A Foundation for Success

    This revised groundwork, by prioritizing organic introductions, emotionally driven motivations, and subtle character development, would allow the rest of the story’s elements to fall much more clearly into place. The Magisterium’s threat would be terrifyingly tangible, Lyra’s courage would be deeply earned, and the complex themes of free will, innocence, and knowledge would resonate far more powerfully. Such a foundation would transform the adaptation into a coherent, compelling, and truly respectful rendition of Pullman’s magnificent world.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Eragon (2006): How a Promising Fantasy Fumbled Its Flight (And How We’d Fix It)

    In 2006, the cinematic adaptation of Christopher Paolini’s bestselling novel Eragon arrived with considerable anticipation. Billed as the next big fantasy epic, it starred Ed Speleers as the titular farm boy and promised dragons, magic, and a sweeping adventure. Yet, despite a substantial budget and a beloved source material, the film largely failed to resonate with critics and fans alike. Its shortcomings weren’t just minor missteps; they stemmed from fundamental storytelling “sins” that left the narrative feeling rushed, unearned, and ultimately, flat.

    The Shortcomings of the Original Film

    Eragon suffered from a script that seemed to check boxes rather than craft a compelling story. Its most glaring issues included:

    • Excessive Telling, Not Showing: The movie opened with heavy exposition, dumping lore on the audience instead of allowing them to discover the world organically. Character development was often stated, not demonstrated.
    • A Passive, Unearned Protagonist: Eragon himself felt like a spectator in his own story. His “specialness” was handed to him, not earned through struggle or active choices. His primary motivation, seeking revenge for his uncle, felt too narrow and naive for an epic of this scale.
    • The “Too Perfect” Dragon: Saphira, the majestic dragon, grew to full size in minutes and was immediately wise, benevolent, and perfectly behaved. This instant perfection robbed the audience of the wonder of her growth, the tension of her power, and the opportunity to witness a truly earned bond with Eragon.
    • Convenient Magic & Plot Devices: Magic in the film often felt like a quick fix, appearing without clear rules or significant cost to the caster. Plot points, like Eragon’s “dream motivation” to save Arya, felt unearned and robbed the narrative of genuine tension and character agency.
    • Undefined Antagonist Motivation: The relentless pursuit of Eragon by the king’s forces, particularly the Ra’zac, lacked clear strategic reasoning from Galbatorix’s perspective, making them feel like generic monsters rather than agents of a terrifying tyranny.

    A Different Outline: Straightening the Story

    To truly make Eragon soar, we need to strip away the unpolished shortcuts and focus on building a character-driven narrative grounded in earned struggle and clear motivations.

    A New Beginning: Desire, Humiliation, and the Unknown

    First, let’s lose that opening exposition and narrative. A fantasy world’s wonder is best left to the audience’s imagination and discovery.

    Instead, open the film with Eragon hunting, failing miserably. This immediately grounds him as a relatable, ordinary farm boy, highlighting his current limitations and setting up an almost absurd contrast with any grand aspirations. It’s during this humble, perhaps humiliating, outing that he finds the mysterious egg and hides it in his hut.

    Later, show the village gathering around a campfire or in a communal space. Brom, the enigmatic storyteller, joins them. When the debate touches on dragons, Brom begins to answer questions, but his responses are mystery-filled and unbelievable, hinting at ancient lore but offering no clear answers.

    At this opportune moment, a naive Eragon steps forward and boldly declares, “I want to be a Dragon Rider!” The village erupts in laughter. Brom, perhaps with a smirk, might make fun of him, pointing out his current lack of skill or the sheer impossibility of such a dream. This immediate humiliation provides a powerful, active initial motivation for Eragon – not just revenge, but a burning desire to prove himself and achieve this seemingly impossible dream.

    Brom then offers a crucial piece of lore, explaining, “Even if you would have what it takes, it’s not up to you. The dragon chooses its Rider.” This statement establishes a core rule of the world, adds a touch of magic, and creates a delicious irony for the audience who knows what’s coming. This initial, deeply personal motivation—Eragon’s active desire to be a Rider despite mockery—would linger throughout the entire movie, giving it a totally different vibe. Only then would we transition into the dragon hatching.

    Saphira: The Litmus Test of Courage

    Once hatched, Saphira should not be all positive and wise from the beginning. Instead, she should be as a dragon ought to be: aggressive, wild, and unpredictable. Her immense power would be terrifying, her instincts raw, and her bond with Eragon a constant, perilous negotiation.

    This unpredictable Saphira would become the mirror (the ultimate litmus test) for Eragon’s development. His growth from fear towards courage wouldn’t just be internal; it would be shown through his arduous, often frustrating, attempts to understand, calm, and guide his formidable companion. Every small victory in gaining her trust would be hard-earned, making their eventual, deep bond genuinely meaningful.

    This changed dynamic would radically impact key scenes. Consider the Varden entrance. In the original movie, the Varden’s ultimatum for Eragon to call Saphira in and she better behave, lest they both be “toast,” lacked any tension because Saphira was perfectly behaved. But imagine the difference: an unpredictable, potentially destructive dragon glides into the Varden’s hidden city, the air crackling with fear and uncertainty. The tension would be palpable. Saphira’s eventual, deliberate good behavior would then be a monumental triumph—a direct result of Eragon’s hard-won growth, his calm nerves, and his ability to project that control through their developing bond. It transforms a plot point into a powerful display of earned character development.

    An Earned Quest: Saving Arya

    The original movie’s “stupid dream motivation” for Eragon to save Arya was a convenient shortcut. Instead, after Brom discovers Saphira and connects the dots to Arya (the elf carrying the egg), their understanding of the king’s vast reach and Arya’s perilous mission would grow. Brom could reveal Arya’s strategic importance to the Varden, and the urgency of her situation. Their motivation to find her wouldn’t be a vague dream, but a calculated decision rooted in a burgeoning sense of responsibility to the larger cause, and perhaps even an intuitive empathetic link developing between Saphira and Eragon as they sense Arya’s plight.

    Magic: Rare, Costly, and Powerful

    The use of magic in the original film was often inconsistent and served as a convenient plot shortcut. If the story is already aiming for the grand scale of Lord of the Rings and with the introdution of dragons hints at Game of Thrones, there’s no need to also inject the magic of Harry Potter.

    Instead, magic should be rare, difficult, and primarily wielded by ancient, powerful beings like the elves (with their millennia of practice) and the corrupted Shades (whose power comes at a terrible cost). Eragon’s own magical abilities would be nascent, incredibly taxing to use, and earned through immense effort and understanding of the Ancient Language. This would force him to rely on his wits, swordsmanship, and ofcourse, Saphira.

    The Liftoff: A New Title for a New Vision

    These changes would be enough for the rest of the story to fall into place, creating a far more cohesive and engaging narrative. And to truly reflect this new vision, the title needs a change. Naming a sweeping epic solely after one character’s “ego” feels too vague and lacks intriguing hooks.

    A more fitting title might be “Eragon: The Liftoff.” This title captures the sense of a new beginning, a momentous launch into a terrifying but hopeful future, and the visual majesty of a dragon taking flight for the first time. It promises adventure, but also the potential for monumental shifts, hinting at the start of a journey that will forever change the world.

    This revised outline, with its focus on earned development, nuanced relationships, and the true weight of power and responsibility, would in my opinion transform Eragon from a cinematic misstep into a truly soaring fantasy epic.

    Thank you,

    Ira