Arcaneya

Tag: alternative outline

  • House of Gucci (2021): Polishing a Watchable Drama into a Timeless Tragedy

    Ridley Scott’s House of Gucci is a lavish, immersive film—long at two hours and forty minutes, yet never dull. Scene by scene, it’s alive with intrigue, power plays, and grand emotion. The performances are striking: Lady Gaga radiates charisma and conviction, Adam Driver delivers quiet complexity, and the supporting cast—from Al Pacino’s seasoned gravitas to Jeremy Irons’s fragile dignity—makes every moment visually and emotionally engaging.
    And Jared Leto, in his turn as Paolo, completely redeems himself from his Joker misfire—at least in my eyes.

    As it stands, House of Gucci is a good film, a confidently told saga of ambition and betrayal. But within its already strong structure lies the potential for greatness—a path toward mythic clarity and emotional inevitability.

    From Good to Great: The Hidden Pitfalls

    The film’s pitfalls aren’t obvious flaws—they’re more like missed opportunities. The pacing works, the tone is steady, and the drama is engaging, yet the story hovers between perspectives, leaving audiences unsure who the true protagonist is. Maurizio’s arc is restrained; Patrizia’s is passionate but scattered. The movie chronicles what happened, but not always why it had to happen. In mythic storytelling, the audience needs a single soul to follow—a heart whose triumph or collapse embodies the theme. That heart should have been Patrizia Reggiani.

    Reimagining Patrizia as the True Lead

    Our mission is to polish her character arc—to deepen it into something archetypal, where every rise and fall feels inevitable. Patrizia should not merely orbit Maurizio’s choices; the story should chart her journey from aspiration to obsession, from glamour to ruin.

    Ridley Scott’s original opening already hints at the duality—Patrizia walking elegantly through her father’s trucking yard, surrounded by grit and noise. But because she smiles and flirts, the intended juxtaposition—refinement versus roughness—fades into charm. In our reimagined version, that moment should reveal clear resentment: a woman in silk suffocating in diesel fumes, aching to escape the world of commerce and oil.

    The Hubris and the Fall

    Hubris demands a stumble. Before meeting Maurizio, Patrizia should face a humbling failure born from pride. She dresses in her finest, bringing a friend to a high-society gala, convinced she belongs. But at the door, the doorman checks the list—her name isn’t there. The pause, the whisper, the polite smile—humiliation. Determined, she sneaks in through the servants’ entrance, brushing past crates and kitchen staff, clutching her pride like a jewel. Inside, under glittering chandeliers, she locks eyes with Maurizio Gucci.
    From that moment, her motivation is crystal clear: never again will she stand outside the palace.

    Make her fly High to fall Low

    As Maurizio falls in love and brings her into the family, Patrizia thrives in the limelight. Flashbulbs follow her; society papers crown her Lady Gucci. Maurizio indulges her instincts, even letting her make key business decisions—hiring, firing, shaping campaigns. She begins to taste true power and mistakes it for destiny.
    At a grand Gucci family dinner, conversation turns to backgrounds. Someone mentions her trucking roots; she freezes, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. In a heartbeat, she recovers, laughing lightly, diverting attention with wit. The guests applaud her charm, but under the table her hand trembles. Under no circumstances does she want to return to her past.

    The Breaking Moment: Selling the Name

    In the original film, Patrizia orders the murder before Maurizio sells his stake in Gucci. But in our reimagining, the sale must come first—the ultimate betrayal. By selling the company, Maurizio doesn’t just end a business; he erases her kingdom. The name that gave her identity becomes a commodity. The woman who rose from the fumes to rule in diamonds is thrust back into the same void she tried to escape. And Maurizio leaves her for another, completing the humiliation.

    Now the murder is no longer sensational—it’s inevitable. Her pride cannot bear the annihilation. He has killed her dream, her reflection, her name. In her eyes, ending his life in return is restoring balance. Where a hero might break down, repent, and surrender, Patrizia doubles down—the mark of an antiheroine.

    Forging the Antiheroine

    In myth, the reckoning divides heroes from antiheroes. The hero, faced with ruin, looks inward—cries, confesses, releases the illusion of control, and is reborn in humility. The antihero cannot bend. Pride turns pain into aggression; the wound demands conquest. Patrizia stands at that crossroad and chooses vengeance.
    Her act is not merely crime—it’s the tragic expression of a soul unable to surrender.

    Conclusion: A More Archetypal Tragedy

    With these refinements—resentment in the opening, humiliation before love, visible power in her rise, the sale as ultimate wound—the story transforms. House of Gucci becomes a true archetypal story. By letting Patrizia face her reckoning—the point of no return and eventually choose pride over grace, the film would ascend from an engaging biopic to a timeless tragedy, showing how antiheroes are born when ego refuses to die—and how every crown forged in vanity eventually turns to ash.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • 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

  • Raya and the Last Dragon (2021): A Beautiful World in Need of Grounding

    Disney’s Raya and the Last Dragon arrived in 2021 with stunning visuals, heartfelt performances, and a central theme that resonates across cultures: trust as the key to healing a broken world. Critics and audiences largely found it watchable and emotionally engaging, praising its Southeast Asian inspirations and message of unity. Yet beneath its shimmering surface, the film carries a handful of structural flaws that blur its mythic logic and weaken its emotional payoff. These issues don’t ruin the movie—they simply keep it from becoming the timeless fable it wants to be.

    Let’s look at where the story drifts and how a few grounded adjustments could let its message truly flow.

    The Exposition Avalanche

    The film opens by telling us the entire backstory—dragons, Druun, the magical gem, and the world’s division—before we meet a single living soul. Because we never experience these events through emotion, they fade from memory; even crucial details, such as the dragons remaining petrified after the first miracle, slip away. A stronger opening would show the fall of harmony in a brief cinematic prologue, then let the remaining lore surface naturally through dialogue and discovery. What the hero learns, the audience remembers.

    The Silly Dragon Lore

    We’re informed that dragons “brought water and rain,” as if they were benevolent weather dispensers. This oversimplified notion breaks the myth’s dignity. True elemental beings don’t hand out resources like gifts; they embody the balance of nature itself. Instead, the story could introduce Dragonettes—elemental spirits that like to take the form of dragons. When trust falters, they withdraw, and the elements still. Rain returns not because they “make” it, but because balance is restored.

    Cozy, Predictable Dragons

    All dragons are portrayed as friendly, plush companions. Without mystery or danger, awe disappears. The Dragonettes should be unpredictable—sometimes gentle, sometimes fierce—reflecting the inner state of the world and of Raya herself. When fear divides her heart, they dim; when she trusts, they shimmer. Mythic creatures mirror humanity’s virtues and flaws, not cushion them.

    The First Failed Miracle left dragons petrified

    Sisu’s initial use of the gem saves humanity but leaves the dragons stone, a contradiction never explained. To ground the law of magic, Sisu could admit a tragic mistake: she didn’t trust enough. And from that she learned. The gem requires trust—every heart beating as one—for full restoration. Her doubt achieved partial salvation; faith was the missing element.

    Ungrounded Shapeshifting

    Sisu’s sudden transformation into human form arrives without foreshadowing, feeling whimsical rather than wondrous. If Dragonettes can change shape according to harmony, this should be stated early. Begin with Sisu in human guise—humble, uncertain—so Raya doubts her claim being Sisu. Only when trust blossoms does she reveal her magnificent true form, turning transformation into payoff instead of surprise.

    Namaari’s Vague Antagonism

    Namaari’s resistance to uniting the gem feels contrived. Facing extinction, why hesitate? Give her a clear motive: fear of being petrified again. The shard she clings to is both shield and symbol of control. Handing it over means surrendering her last defense. Now her hesitation carries emotional logic rather than arbitrary conflict.

    Doubt After Sisu’s Death

    When Sisu falls, Namaari’s despair and holding on to the shard should deepen: “Only a Dragon can restore the gem.” This belief amplifies the tension. The humans must act with no guarantee, trusting an unseen law. The waiting becomes sacred suspense, turning faith into the film’s true climax.

    A Resurrection with Cost

    In the current film, Sisu’s automatic revival cancels decision-consequence paradigm. The real resurrection already occurs when the world and dragons awaken anyhow. To preserve weight, Sisu should remain lifeless as the Dragonettes mourn her. Only after Raya and Namaari fully repent—confessing pride, fear, and guilt—does harmony ignite and Sisu breathe again. Her return then embodies transformation, not reset.

    How These Changes Heal the Story

    With these adjustments, Raya and the Last Dragon transforms from a visually impressive parable with loose logic into a fully realized myth with emotional weight and spiritual coherence. The exposition becomes lived experience; the Dragonettes replace simplistic rain-bringers with elemental grace and symbolic truth; miracles follow consistent laws grounded in moral action.

    Trust is no longer a slogan but a tangible force — the current that flows when hearts align. Sacrifice retains consequence, resurrection becomes transformation, and every act reflects a world that operates by clear spiritual physics.

    But perhaps most importantly, these changes restore archetypal familiarity and true dragon lore remains intact. When storytellers deviate too far from these shared narrative roots, the audience struggles to orient themselves. The eyes may admire the spectacle, but the soul cannot recognize its reflection.

    Without that resonance, even the most lavish film risks feeling hollow — failing to generate the emotional word-of-mouth that drives lasting success. A movie can dazzle in the short term, but if its symbols are unmoored and its miracles unearned, it won’t echo in conversation or memory.

    Audiences can’t champion a story they don’t quite understand. You can’t start an excited debate with friends when you’re still trying to decode what you just watched. Imagine the conversation:

    Person A: So, what were the dragons like?
    Person B: Oh, they brought water… you know, like rain spirits.
    Person A: Wait, what?
    Person B: Yeah… and they were magical… I think?
    Person A: Magical? How so?
    Person B: I don’t know… They were turned to stone anyway.
    Person A: …Right. And how was Superman the other day?

    If viewers can’t explain what moved them, or why the world’s logic makes sense, the emotional spark fizzles. Confusion replaces wonder, and conversation drifts to safer ground.

    That’s why mythic clarity matters — not just for artistic integrity, but for cultural survival. When stories honor archetypes and internal laws, audiences recognize their echoes and carry them forward. When they don’t, even spectacle becomes forgettable.

    Grounding a story in coherent myth isn’t just artistic discipline — it’s storytelling economics. Connection creates meaning, meaning creates buzz, and buzz fills seats. By aligning emotional truth with archetypal clarity, Raya and the Last Dragon could have become not only a beautiful film, but a cultural touchstone — one that flows like water through time, remembered for what it taught as much as what it showed.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • 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

  • 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

  • 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

  • Frozen II (2019): Reimagining the Most Natural Continuation of Events for the Sequel

    Frozen 2 was, by most accounts, a visual and musical triumph. The animation dazzled with sweeping landscapes and intricate details, while the songs ranged from whimsical to emotionally resonant, offering moments that lingered long after the credits rolled. Yet, beneath this polished surface, the story often felt disjointed, wandering through plot points that lacked foreshadowing or grounding, and leaving audiences—both young and old—scrambling to connect the dots.

    In a previous article, we pointed out the inconsistencies we noticed, and in this one, we chose to reimagine the sequel’s events in a way that feels natural and coherent, building directly on the foundations laid in the first film. In this version, Elsa’s journey is anchored in her newfound “love powers,” which literally nurture the kingdom, and her challenges unfold logically from her actions and choices. Along the way, familiar characters like Olaf and Anna continue to provide warmth and humor, while new allies, like a comically loyal animated scarecrow, offer fresh stakes and perspective.

    By restructuring the story, we aim to preserve the charm and spectacle of Frozen 2 while giving its characters arcs that feel earned, its conflicts that feel plausible, and its magical world that remains breathtaking without losing narrative sense.

    Act 1 – The Kingdom of Love

    1. Opening Growth of Arendelle – Elsa’s new “love powers” nourish the kingdom: crops grow, new homes rise, and people migrate in from nearby lands. The city bustles like never before.
    2. Olaf starts as a bucket of water – With a “don’t touch” sign attached to it and coals and carrots beside. Maybe he sings “in the summer” with dull bubbly voice.
    3. Elsa Animates the Scarecrow – While blessing farmland, Elsa accidentally brings a scarecrow to life. He is clumsy, loyal, and humorous — a grounded companion to Olaf, who later reappears from his bucket-of-water state. Love always adds to the company.
    4. Elsa’s Burden – Elsa panics when she realizes she cannot give attention and love to every new subject. Anna calms her, reminding her not to try carrying the whole kingdom alone.
    5. Envy of Neighbors – Surrounding kingdoms, losing citizens to Arendelle’s prosperity, watch with resentment. Whispers of jealousy begin to spread.
    6. Anna and Kristoff’s Engagement – Amid the growth, Anna and Kristoff get engaged, preparing for a wedding. Their joyful plans will contrast with Elsa’s growing anxieties.
    7. A Prince Arrives – Elsa meets a visiting prince (possibly from “Weaseltown” or a relative of Hans). She is intrigued, flustered, and slowly becomes obsessed, neglecting her kingdom.

    Act 2 – The Freeze of the Heart

    1. Neglect and Shadows – Elsa, distracted by the prince, pays little attention to the creeping rise of shady figures in the kingdom. Crime and unrest take root.
    2. Elsa’s Harsh Measures – Trying to “fix” things quickly, Elsa lashes out with her ice powers against troublemakers — creating collateral damage. This terrifies her people and alienates the prince.
    3. The Prince Breaks Her Heart – Shocked by her severity, the prince leaves her. Elsa’s heart shatters, and a cruel winter suddenly returns, spreading across Arendelle and beyond.
    4. Olaf Returns – Since it’s winter again, Anna takes Olaf’s water bucket onto the balcony, pours it into the snow, and Olaf re-forms, shivering but alive.
    5. Elsa Withdraws – Elsa seals herself inside her castle, freezing over the doors. She rules only by enchanted scrolls, dropped daily from her balcony. Fear spreads among her subjects.
    6. The Army in Retreat – Arendelle’s soldiers abandon their posts, preferring their home fireplaces over Elsa’s cold commands. The kingdom grows weaker and more fearful.
    7. Jealous Kingdoms Seize Opportunity – The envious neighbors unite to invade the new farmlands, claiming they will “liberate Arendelle from the witch.” With Elsa locked away, they invade the city.
    8. Anna puts on ice climbing gear – And climbs the frozen castle to warn Elsa.

    Act 3 – Exile and Redemption

    1. Elsa Driven Out – The invaders storm Arendelle, and Elsa flees into exile. They occupy the city but are frustrated that the land remains frozen solid, useless for farming.
    2. Anna and Friends Search – Anna, Kristoff, Olaf, and Scarecrow slip out, determined to find Elsa. On the way, they stop briefly at the familiar sauna shack, seeking guidance. The castle turns out empty.
    3. The Invaders’ Realization – The occupiers of Arendelle admit they’ll never gain fertile land as long as Elsa lives. They send an execution squad to track her down and finish her.
    4. Elsa in the Border Town – Elsa arrives at the isolated town, where the mayor shelters her amid complaints from the townsfolk about her lingering winter.
    5. A Mysterious Snowy Town – From the castle, Anna, Kristoff, Olaf, and the scarecrow spot an unusually snowy town far in the distance. They realize Elsa may have fled there, setting up the next leg of their journey.
    6. The Race Across the Blizzard – Anna and her companions trek through a brutal storm, struggling against the cold. It becomes a race: who will reach Elsa first, the assassins or her friends?
    7. Mayor’s Scheme – The mayor, attracted to Elsa, considers abducting or exploiting her powers for his advantage triggering her self-reflection.
    8. Elsa Confronted – In the border town, the executioners arrive just as Elsa begins to understand the harm her neglect has caused.
    9. The Apology – Anna reaches Elsa first. Elsa breaks down, admitting: “I was so obsessed with him that I neglected my kingdom. I’m so sorry.” Her tears thaw the winter and restore balance and also enchant the mayor who gets rid of executioners for her.
    10. Elsa’s Return to Arendelle – Elsa returns, publicly taking responsibility for her failings. The people forgive her and rally to her side.
    11. Repelling the Invaders – United, Arendelle’s citizens expel the greedy neighboring kingdoms. Attempts to manually thaw or conquer the land fail, proving Elsa’s unique role.
    12. Final Balance – Elsa recommits to ruling with compassion. Anna prepares for her wedding. Olaf and the scarecrow provide comic relief, symbolizing the kingdom’s resilience and grounding.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Artemis Fowl (2020): A Criminal Mastermind Needed the Proper Origin Story

    When Disney adapted Artemis Fowl to the screen, the promise was bold: the story of a twelve-year-old genius criminal mastermind, pitting his intellect against the hidden world of the fairies. But instead of a razor-sharp cat-and-mouse tale, the movie offered a muddled spectacle. Fairies appeared as high-tech soldiers, their magic reduced to gadgets. Artemis acted less like a manipulator and more like a wide-eyed boy thrust into an adventure. And yet, in the final scene, he called himself a “criminal mastermind.” The words rang hollow. Nothing in his journey justified that title.

    The problem was fundamental: the movie could not decide who was right or wrong, who acted justly or unjustly. The fairies seemed villainous one moment and sympathetic the next. Artemis was painted as sincere, even likable, befriending a fairy to reach a happy ending. But sincerity and friendship are the exact opposites of what the premise promised. By softening him, the film robbed Artemis of his defining arc.

    Why the Book Worked and the Movie Did Not

    In Eoin Colfer’s book, Artemis is no hero. He is manipulative, arrogant, and willing to cross moral lines. The tension comes from watching someone so young act with the cunning of a hardened criminal. Readers are pulled between admiration and unease. In the movie, however, this edge was dulled. By making Artemis sympathetic from the start, the story never earned his final declaration of being a “criminal mastermind”. The result was tonal dissonance — a happy ending wearing the mask of a dark one.

    Giving Artemis the Proper Path

    If Artemis Fowl is to conclude his story as a criminal mastermind, the tale must lead him there naturally. It begins by recognizing that intelligence alone is not enough. A boy who is smart from the start but untested needs flaws that put him at risk. For Artemis, arrogance and smugness would be his blind spots — the very traits that land him in trouble as he sets out to rescue his father.

    But to make that rescue matter, his father must not be an innocent victim. Artemis Sr. should be guilty of something immoral, perhaps stealing something sacred or breaking a pact with the fairies. At first, Artemis Jr. would not know this, believing his father’s capture unjust. That belief fuels his determination, even as his arrogance blinds him to the dangers ahead.

    The Dark Revelation

    At his lowest point, Artemis Jr. would be captured himself. This is where most heroes are humbled, forced to learn humility and rely on others. But Artemis is not most heroes. In captivity, he would uncover the truth: his father’s plight was the result of criminal acts. There is no lawful or noble way out. If he wishes to save his father — and himself — he must resort to the tools of a true mastermind: manipulation, lying, and promise-breaking.

    This is the moment the title “criminal mastermind” becomes earned. Not a boy playing at cleverness, but one who makes the conscious choice to weaponize his intellect in morally shady ways. Where his father faltered by trying to play both sides, Artemis Jr. doubles down, committing fully to the criminal path.

    Reimagining the Fairies

    To polish the story further, the confusion around the “tech fairies” must go. The movie’s choice to turn fairies into gadget-wielding soldiers was lazy — a shortcut to ride on familiar lore while gutting it of meaning. Instead, the fairies should be written as something richer: hybrids of fairy and human, or perhaps the remnants of an ancient race of intelligent builders who once shaped the great monuments of the world. Sensitive to sunlight, they live underground, emerging only at night. This grounds their culture in mystery and depth, making them more than props for the plot.

    The Proper Ending

    Such a reimagined story would not need to force a happy resolution. Instead, it would allow Artemis to stand where the book intended him: victorious, yes, but tainted. He wins by cheating the rules, not by befriending his enemies. He leaves not a boy pretending to be a mastermind, but a mastermind forged by revelation and choice — the boy who chose the shadows when the light failed him.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Land of the Lost (2009): Amplifying the Hardly Noticed Common Thread

    Land of the Lost (2009) had every ingredient for a wild, inventive comedy. Dinosaurs, alternate dimensions, strange ape-men, Will Ferrell at the center — it should have been a playground of absurdity with enough charm to make it stick. But instead of coherence, what the audience got was a string of unrelated gags, laced with toilet humor that felt cheap and out of place. The promise of something imaginative devolved into randomness, leaving both critics and audiences scratching their heads. The missing piece? A clear narrative thread that could have anchored all the chaos.

    Marshall’s Desperate Need for Redemption

    That missing spine was right there in the premise but never explored: Dr. Rick Marshall’s desperation to be taken seriously again. The movie opens with him ridiculed on the Matt Lauer show, humiliated to the point that his career collapses. And yet, the film never truly builds on this humiliation as the emotional engine. Imagine instead if everything Marshall did from that moment onward was driven by his burning need to redeem himself. The tachyon amplifier wouldn’t just be a silly prop; it would be his lifeline back to dignity, his proof that he wasn’t a fraud.

    The Land of the Lost as His Internal Battlefield

    In this reimagined version, the alternate universe isn’t just a bizarre playground — it is the battleground of Marshall’s psyche. Every danger he encounters, every failure and absurdity, is an expression of his terror that Matt Lauer might be right, that he will never climb out of ridicule. Dinosaurs don’t chase him simply because they exist; they chase him because he’s affraid he will never get back on Matt Lauer show to redeem himself. The Sleestaks are not random villains but guardians of his self-doubt, blocking him at every turn. Even the comic ape-man Chaka becomes a mirror of Marshall’s irrational devotion, showing how foolish he looks when he worships the idea of revenge on Lauer above everything else.

    The Clash of Realities: Marshall vs. Lauer

    Here lies the heart of the story: the negativity Marshall experiences in this bizarre world isn’t just bad luck. It is the clash of two realities — his desperate vision of returning to vindicate himself, and Matt Lauer’s counter-reality where Marshall will always be a fraud. Every setback, every ridiculous detour, is the pull of Lauer’s reality pressing down on him. The audience could see the comedy not just as slapstick, but as the painful tug-of-war of Marshall’s pride trying to rewrite the world against the weight of his humiliation. This interpretation transforms the film’s chaos into meaning.

    Redemption in the Right Form

    When Marshall loses the amplifier for good, the comedy turns poignant. He isn’t devastated about being trapped in another dimension; he’s crushed because he thinks he has lost his redemption, his chance to sit across from Lauer with proof. Only when Holly and Will force him to see the bigger picture — survival, friendship, responsibility — does Marshall slowly begin to shift. In the climax, when given a choice between chasing redemption or saving his friends, he finally chooses them. Ironically, proof of his theories still emerges, but by then Marshall has been transformed. The redemption he once saw only in humiliating Lauer is now found in his growth, his willingness to put people before pride.

    Why This Would Work

    By reshaping the movie around Marshall’s obsession with redemption, the randomness of Land of the Lost gains coherence. Every gag, every chase, every strange detour ties back to the same thread: the clash of Marshall’s fragile ego against the humiliating reality imposed by Matt Lauer. Comedy becomes sharper because it comes from character, not from toilet humor. The finale becomes satisfying because it resolves the arc — Marshall doesn’t just “get out of the land of the lost,” he escapes the prison of his own doubt.

    Conclusion: The Movie That Could Have Been

    Land of the Lost had the potential to be more than a jumble of sketches. It could have been a surreal but meaningful comedy about pride, humiliation, and the desperate need to be believed. By grounding the chaos in Marshall’s obsessive battle with Matt Lauer’s reality, the movie could have gained both heart and cohesion. And with the toilet humor replaced by sharper gags — like the infamous “selfie with an ancient camera” in Holmes & Watson — this bizarre adventure might not just have been fun, but memorable. Who knows? With that spine, it might even have nudged its IMDb score up a full point.

    Thank you!

    Ira