Arcaneya

Tag: alternative outline

  • Holmes & Watson (2018): An Alternate Arc For Watson’s Earned Co-Detective Position

    Holmes & Watson (2018) had all the right ingredients for a clever historical parody: two brilliant comedic actors, an iconic detective duo, and a high-stakes mystery involving Queen Victoria. Unfortunately, the film’s potential was buried under layers of juvenile toilet humor, repetitive slapstick, and random gags that overshadowed the story. Critics were nearly unanimous in pointing out that the humor often detracted from the narrative, leaving audiences laughing sporadically but rarely engaged with the plot or the characters.

    Yet beneath the chaotic jokes, there were glimmers of character arcs — the subtle fallout and reconciliation between Holmes and Watson hinted at relational growth, even if it was barely developed. Overall, however, both characters remain mostly static: Holmes eccentric and brilliant, Watson loyal and bumbling, from beginning to end. This lack of sustained development meant the story had little emotional payoff, leaving viewers disconnected from what could have been a clever parody with real stakes.

    An Alternative Outline for Watson’s Growth

    A more engaging approach would be to build the story around deeper character arcs that run throughout the entire film. One compelling possibility would focus on the dynamic between Holmes and Watson, using a promise of partnership as the narrative backbone. Imagine Holmes promising Watson that if he contributes meaningfully to solving the Queen’s assassination threat, he will be named co-detective. Excited and eager, Watson sets out to prove himself — only to find that Holmes is secretly sabotaging him at every turn. Holmes could subtly alter clues, misplace evidence, or even redirect minor discoveries, all while maintaining his usual brilliance, perhaps even solving parts of the case in mere minutes.

    Watson, relentless and determined, works through Holmes’ sabotage, demonstrating resourcefulness and cleverness that surprises even Holmes himself. This cat-and-mouse dynamic creates both comedic tension and emotional investment, as viewers root for Watson to earn his recognition. Eventually, Watson discovers the sabotage, leading to a comedic yet meaningful fallout. Holmes, confronted, must apologize and admit his jealousy, revealing unexpected growth and vulnerability while retaining his iconic genius. Only after this reconciliation do they come together to solve the final mystery, blending their complementary strengths.

    Final Thoughts

    With this deeper arc, the film could have replaced most of the lowbrow toilet humor with clever situational gags — the Titanic gag and the bulky camera selfie joke stand out as prime examples of absurdity that actually works within the narrative. The result is a movie where the comedy arises naturally from character interactions and historical absurdities, rather than forced visual gags.

    In conclusion, by weaving sustained arcs for both Holmes and Watson, emphasizing relational growth, and focusing on clever, situational humor instead of gratuitous slapstick, Holmes & Watson could have transformed into a genuinely enjoyable parody. Such a reimagined version might even be worth watching, elevating the film beyond its original critical reception and giving both its actors and the iconic detective duo the showcase they deserved.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • She’s Out of My League (2010): Making it Less Far-fetched and More Tropey

    She’s Out of My League is one of those comedies that seems to have everything lined up for success. It takes a relatable fantasy—the average guy getting the dream girl—and builds a story around it. There are plenty of laughs, some awkward situations, and a likable lead in Jay Baruchel. For a casual watch, it works. But when you step back, the cracks start to show. The story leans too hard on the gimmick of the “10 out of 10” beauty falling for a “5 at best” guy. Instead of developing real chemistry or growth, the film often plays the mismatch for laughs.

    The biggest problem comes when the script tries to raise the stakes. Just before Kirk and Molly are about to take the next step in their relationship, the movie throws in a wild self-destructing freak-out from Kirk. It doesn’t feel like a natural part of his character arc—it feels inserted to create the standard rom-com breakup beat. The result is more silly than believable.

    At its heart, the movie misses a chance to tell a more grounded story. The idea of Kirk not pushing himself onto Molly and standing out from the usual guys at a party is solid. Molly’s interest could easily grow from that spark. But the film doesn’t follow through. Instead, it turns Kirk into a walking ball of insecurity that explodes at the wrong moments. The relationship feels less like something built step by step, and more like something that “just happens” because the plot demands it.

    An Alternative Outline

    Imagine if the story leaned into the misunderstanding at the start. Kirk returns Molly’s phone at a party. They talk for a while, and Kirk never asks for her number, never tries anything. Molly mistakes this restraint for quiet confidence, even maturity. What she doesn’t know is that Kirk is holding back because he thinks she’s completely out of his league. That misunderstanding is the spark.

    But Kirk knows the truth. He knows that the second Molly meets his family and friends, the illusion will crack. They’ll laugh, they’ll stare, they’ll undercut him. So he hides her. Every chance for her to meet his circle is dodged with awkward excuses. Molly finds it strange, but she interprets it as him being private, maybe even protective. For Kirk, it’s survival.

    Eventually, Molly insists. She doesn’t want a relationship in hiding. When she finally meets Kirk’s people, the illusion collapses. Shocked faces, awkward jokes, and Kirk’s own discomfort reveal everything she had started to suspect: he wasn’t being confident, he was being scared. And for Molly, that hurts. She realizes he never really believed he deserved her.

    This sets up a much stronger conflict. Kirk can’t hide anymore. He has to face the fact that he put Molly on a pedestal and let fear control him. His growth comes not from avoiding embarrassment or stumbling into luck, but from choosing to own who he is and stand by Molly without shame. Molly, on her side, has to decide if she wants a partner who is flawed but honest, instead of the fantasy of the guy who seemed immune to her beauty.

    Closing Thoughts

    This version of the story may lean on a more familiar rom-com trope—hiding the relationship until it blows up—but it at least feels believable. The conflict grows out of the characters, not out of forced gags. Kirk doesn’t magically become confident; he earns it by confronting his fear. Molly isn’t just a prize to be won, but someone who demands honesty. It’s still funny, still awkward, still romantic—but grounded enough that the love story actually rings true.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Seventh Son (2014): The Right Ingredients, But No Recipe

    Seventh Son should have been a darkly enchanting fantasy — a medieval tale of witches, monsters, and reluctant heroes. On paper, it had everything: a world ripe with folklore, a grizzled mentor in Master Gregory, a young apprentice in Tom Ward, and an old evil stirring again. But what critics and audiences quickly picked up on is that while the film had all the right ingredients, it never found the recipe. The world was intriguing, but the story felt like a patchwork of tropes, hollow gestures, and moments that didn’t build toward anything greater.

    Instead of wonder, we were left with a sense of detachment. And that’s why so many panned it.

    Where the Film Went Wrong

    The largest pitfall wasn’t simply poor pacing or uneven dialogue. It was deeper: the story seemed to be happening to Tom rather than Tom living it. At every turn, he was swept along — purchased as an apprentice, told what his destiny is, nudged toward his visions — and all of this robbed the narrative of agency.

    The “special one” trope, the idea that being a seventh son of a seventh son made him innately chosen, stripped Tom of any earned progress. His visions doubled down on this, as if fate had already written his story, removing ambiguity and the essential tension of free will. And then, as if that weren’t enough, he fell into a romance with Alice before the story even had time to breathe. A kiss that early makes the kiss at the end feel less like a crescendo of growth and intimacy and more like reheated leftovers.

    The result? A flat arc. No real tension. No chance for the protagonist to stumble, doubt, choose poorly, and only then learn.

    A Better Recipe: The Reimagined Outline

    What if Seventh Son leaned into what it already had but corrected its course? Let’s imagine it.

    First, the “special one” is reframed not as a gift, but as a burden — or even worse, a false sense of importance. Tom’s bravado, fed by the myth of being “the seventh son,” would be his greatest flaw. He would think himself destined for greatness when in truth, greatness is only ever earned. This arrogance is what drives him to choose Gregory’s shorter, riskier path — ignoring the master’s warnings about safer routes. Each monster along the way isn’t random spectacle but a reflection of Tom’s inner flaws: recklessness, impatience, fear of failure. The foes escalate as his bravado cracks, forcing him to face himself as much as the enemy.

    Second, his departure from home should be a choice. Not the result of being bought, bartered, or bullied, but a conscious leap into danger — a decision rooted in youthful arrogance. It’s only later, when the weight of consequence presses on him, that the hollowness of bravado becomes clear.

    Third, the romance with Alice should serve as the barometer of his growth. No sudden spark, no premature kiss, but a slow-burning connection tested by trust, betrayal, and fear. If their bond is withheld until the end, the final kiss isn’t a repeat of an earlier scene — it’s a release, the proof that Tom has shed his fears, his arrogance, and found himself.

    Why This Works

    This reframing doesn’t erase the folklore or spectacle of Seventh Son. It enhances it. Suddenly the story is about choice, consequence, and growth. By stripping away the lazy shortcuts — the destiny card, the visions, the early romance — and letting Tom wrestle with agency, bravado, and earned intimacy, the film could have turned from flat fantasy into a mythic coming-of-age.

    It’s not that Seventh Son lacked magic. It lacked a protagonist who mattered by choice rather than prophecy. With that simple shift, the monsters become mirrors, the romance becomes earned, and the arc becomes a journey of a boy who thought he was special until he realized being human — flawed, brave, and free — was special enough.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • The Watch (2012): Failed Because It Was Not Absurd Enough. Let’s Fix That

    Some movies start with a premise so sharp you can’t help but think, this is going to be good. The Watch (2012), starring Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, Jonah Hill, and Richard Ayoade, is one of those. A bunch of suburban men form a neighborhood watch, only to discover that their sleepy town is infested with aliens. It’s the kind of setup that should write itself into a cult comedy classic. Yet the execution was anything but. The movie barrels ahead with scattershot gags, tonal shifts, and chaotic alien action that never quite gels with the humor. What could have been a satire of suburbia meeting the absurd ended up with a truly horrific Rotten Tomatoes score and a reputation as one of those comedies that just couldn’t deliver.

    The core problem? The Watch wasn’t absurd enough. It wanted to play with outlandish ideas but never fully committed, trying to be a half-comedy, half-action film, and landing awkwardly in between. The absurdity was always waiting in the wings, but the movie chose explosions over escalation.

    The Missed Opportunity for Absurdity

    Imagine instead that the inciting incident didn’t involve aliens at all. The Costco security guard at the beginning doesn’t die in some shocking extraterrestrial attack — he just gets wasted at a late-night party in the store and has a horrific accident. Ben Stiller’s character, desperate to impose order on his otherwise mundane life, convinces himself that no human accident could look that bizarre. He concludes it must have been aliens.

    From there, paranoia takes over. A neighborhood watch is formed. The men start seeing patterns where there are none — blinking lights, strange noises, people acting suspiciously. Their imagination fuels their conviction, and the comedy comes not from alien gore but from how far suburban dads will take their fantasies when unchallenged. The brilliance here would be the slow burn escalation: the audience isn’t sure if this is all in their heads or if something real is lurking.

    And then — against all odds — the aliens actually show up.

    The Confrontation and the Cosmic Prank

    When the Watch finally faces aliens, the absurdity peaks. They’re laughably outmatched. Their paranoia-driven confidence shatters as the aliens wipe the floor with them. The men break down, humiliated, admitting they never really knew what they were doing. In the wreckage of their dignity, they’re ready for annihilation.

    But instead of finishing them off, the aliens reveal the truth: it was all a prank. They’d heard rumors across the galaxy about some suburban town in a backwater corner of Earth where guys had formed a “watch” for aliens. The sheer ridiculousness of it was too tempting. They had to see what would happen if they played along.

    The aliens didn’t come to invade; they came to troll. What the humans mistook for deadly serious was, for the aliens, cosmic hazing.

    Why This Would Work

    This alternative outline doesn’t just heighten the absurdity — it commits to it. By rooting the story first in accident-born paranoia, it grounds the comedy in something relatable: how humans can invent meaning (illusion) where there is none. The slow escalation gives the characters room to grow and play off one another instead of drowning in chaotic set pieces. The reckoning and willingness to admit their pitfalls and naivete at the end is the earned product of that internal growth. And the cherry on top? The very satisfaction that, in their own ridiculous way, they managed to manifest their thoughts into reality.

    After the ego is broken, new unassuming galactic friends emerge — pranksters who prove that sometimes the universe is in on the joke. That ending lands with a laugh and a point. Sometimes life’s big battles aren’t cosmic wars but our own tendency to take ourselves too seriously. In this version, The Watch could have been a suburban Galaxy Quest — self-aware, absurd, and much more fun to watch.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • Pan (2015): Magical Flight In the Beginning? Not in this Reimagined Outline

    When Pan (2015) first sailed into theaters, it promised a dazzling new take on Peter Pan’s origin story. What audiences got instead was a patchwork quilt of overused tropes, strange creative choices, and one of the most infamous sequences in recent cinema: Blackbeard’s pirates belting out Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” That moment, as bizarre as it sounds, became a perfect symbol for the film—loud, confusing, and entirely disconnected from the timeless magic of J.M. Barrie’s creation. And it only got worse from there, with trope after trope piling up until the story collapsed under its own weight.

    The Flight That Ruined the Journey

    One of the most important motifs in Peter Pan’s story is flight—the ultimate symbol of freedom, belief, and transformation. In mythic storytelling terms, the “magical flight” usually comes near the end of the hero’s journey, as a culmination of growth and courage. But in Pan, the filmmakers burned through that moment almost immediately. When Blackbeard kicks Peter off the plank, Peter suddenly manages to fly, not through struggle or belief, but as if it were his destiny all along. From that instant, the movie tells us he’s “the special one,” chosen from birth, and therefore removes all suspense, ambiguity, or wonder. Why worry if Peter’s already proven to be invincible by the twenty-minute mark? The rest of the story limps on, robbed of its heart.

    How It Could Have Worked Instead

    Imagine if, instead of prematurely crowning Peter the messiah of Neverland, the film leaned into ambiguity. The fairies could whisper among themselves about an ancient legend: one day, a child wearing a magical necklace would save Neverland from the pirates. When they see Peter with the necklace, they wonder quietly if it’s him, but no one—including the audience—knows for sure. Then, when Blackbeard pushes Peter off the plank, the fairies secretly sneak in and sprinkle him with fairy dust, just enough so he flutters to safety. The pirates are stunned, just like in the original 1953 film, but this time the audience is in on the secret: it was a scam.

    Peter, of course, believes he really is the chosen one, and his swelling ego puts his friends in danger. The fairies are scolded by their “fairy grandmother” for meddling with destiny and feeding Peter’s false belief. But here’s where the arc pays off—at the climax, when everyone is cornered and all hope is lost, Peter finally manages to fly for real. Not because he was born special, but because he has grown, repented for his reckless mistakes, and found the courage to believe in himself. That moment would have carried the magic the movie so desperately needed.

    Why This Change Matters

    This small adjustment alone could have transformed Pan from a hollow origin story into a myth worth retelling. It would have preserved the ambiguity of Peter’s destiny, given him an actual character arc, and left the audience with the same awe and wonder that Barrie’s original story still evokes. Instead, what we got was a fast-track to “chosen one” status, followed by a cringe-worthy holographic fairy-dust mother, duplicated Cara Delevingne mermaids, and, yes, a pirate choir that belonged more in karaoke night than Neverland.

    Sometimes the difference between a story collapsing and a story soaring isn’t a massive rewrite—it’s simply knowing when not to spend your most magical moment.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief (2010): Three Plot Issues That Drive Us Crazy

    When Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief hit theaters in 2010, it brought Rick Riordan’s beloved book to life with eye-catching special effects and a fun, modern twist on Greek mythology. The film follows Percy Jackson, a seemingly ordinary teen who discovers he is the son of Poseidon, as he becomes embroiled in a quest involving stolen lightning, vengeful gods, and perilous adventures. While visually engaging and appealing to a younger audience, the movie’s narrative falters in ways that even casual viewers can notice. Critics and fans alike pointed out pacing issues, campy moments, and story choices that feel illogical, leaving the film struggling to capture the cleverness and heart of its source material.

    The Three Plot Issues

    Among the film’s many missteps, three stand out as particularly frustrating. First, the premise that children of gods are automatically demigods capable of incredible feats undermines any potential arc. Percy, presented as instantly competent, never truly earns his victories, which flattens his growth and diminishes audience investment in his journey. Second, the gods’ reaction to the stolen lightning bolt is baffling: they instantly pin the blame on Percy without any search, discussion, or speculation. The lack of investigation makes them appear either incompetent or irrational, creating an avoidable plot hole that weakens the stakes. Third, the subplot involving Persephone and the three pearls is convoluted and nonsensical. The pearls are supposedly magical objects that allow visitors to escape the Underworld, yet Persephone, who controls them, cannot simply hand them over. Instead, they are scattered across the world for reasons that remain unexplained, turning what should be a logical plot device into a confusing fetch quest.

    Proposing a Better Approach

    These three issues — Percy’s overpowered heritage, the gods’ blind accusation, and the pearl confusion — are all fixable, and addressing them could transform the story into a more satisfying and coherent adventure.

    First, Percy’s divine parentage could confer only limited benefits, such as accelerated healing in water, while all other abilities would need to be learned and honed through training. This allows Percy’s pride in being Poseidon’s son to drive recklessness and mistakes, giving him a believable and engaging arc. Second, Percy should have a direct role in the theft to give him agency. At Camp Half-Blood, an excursion could set the stage for Hades, disguised as a mentor, to manipulate Percy into taking the lightning bolt without fully understanding its significance. Hades then removes the bolt to the Underworld, but his involvement is initially only speculative, creating tension and mystery. Percy, recognizing the consequences of his actions, volunteers to enter the Underworld to recon and investigate the bolt.

    Finally, instead of the illogical pearl quest, Percy’s journey could revolve around earning three divine tools necessary for his mission: the Sword of Courage, the Armor of Heart, and the Helmet of Wisdom. Each tool would be obtained through a trial that teaches him the trait it represents, turning a random collection task into a structured series of challenges that align with character growth.

    Why These Changes Matter

    By rethinking these key elements, the story gains coherence, logic, and emotional weight. Percy’s victories feel earned, the antagonist’s plan becomes compelling rather than arbitrary, and the quest transforms from a confusing fetch mission into a meaningful path of growth. The stakes are personal and cosmic, and the narrative allows Percy to make mistakes, learn from them, and gradually become the hero the audience wants him to be. These changes preserve the excitement and mythic wonder of the original story while giving it the depth it needed to fully resonate on screen.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Mortal Engines (2018): Putting the Derailed Premise Back on the Mud Track

    Mortal Engines opens with one of the most imaginative concepts in modern steampunk cinema — cities on wheels, devouring each other in a post-apocalyptic ecosystem of predator and prey. The idea is visual dynamite. You can almost taste the diesel fumes, hear the creak of steel teeth as one city swallows another.

    And yet, after this thunderous opening, the movie veers into strange, disconnected territory. The predator-city concept fades into the background as we follow a revenge arc that could have been set in any generic dystopia, a sentimental undead assassin with confusing motivations, and a conveniently introduced fortress city that arrives without setup. By the time the climax rolls around, we’ve gone from grinding gears and political maneuvering to a quantum-powered doomsday weapon — a tonal leap so jarring it snaps the dieselpunk fantasy in half.

    The heart of the premise — the politics, survival, and ruthlessness of predator cities — gets lost under a heap of side plots. Which is a shame, because with the right focus, Mortal Engines could have been something unforgettable.

    A Love Story That Devours

    Instead of scattering the audience’s attention, the story could have anchored itself to a single, driving throughline: a classic love story, tangled in the politics of predator cities.

    The film could open much like the original — a medium-sized predator city hunting down a smaller one. The protagonist, a young captain’s apprentice, makes the decisive move that captures the prey (the magician archetype). After the victory, he convinces the crew to pull ashore for a much-needed rest, docking against a beautiful, stationary shore city. He signals peace with white lights… but positions the city so its treads crush the first shoreline house — a symbolic reminder that even diplomacy in this world begins with a bite.

    Tensions are high as diplomats are sent in. Here, the apprentice meets a woman who will upend his world (the high priestess) — radiant, sharp, and belonging to a city too beautiful to devour. To impress her, he later captures a third city, basking in his own bravado. But she soon tires of his arrogance and returns to her former lover. Stung and furious, the apprentice engineers a false flag attack from her home city, giving him the excuse to devour it.

    His triumph turns sour. Diplomats resent him, and the great metropolis of London sends him cold warnings. With enemies closing in, he is eventually forced to seek asylum in a massive fortress city with walls like Shan Guo, enduring ridicule for his retreat. Cornered (the hanged man archetype), he begins to reckon with the destruction he has caused. When he meets his former love again — a survivor of the city he destroyed — he apologises (the death archetype). They share a quiet, sunlit moment of truth (the sun archetype). She offers a hint of warmth, but nothing more for now.

    Redemption on the Edge of Devouring

    With London’s forces advancing and all seemed lost, the protagonist does not surrender to despair. Instead, tempered by loss and humbled by the consequences of his pride, he devises a bold plan—not to fight with sheer force but to outthink the predator city system itself.

    Drawing on his knowledge of the cities’ mechanics and his hard-earned understanding of alliances and survival, he forges unexpected coalitions among smaller settlements, uniting prey cities that had long lived in fear and isolation. He transforms the landscape from a battlefield of consumption into a network of cooperation, a new kind of ecosystem where survival depends on mutual support rather than endless devouring.

    In a climactic maneuver, he leads this alliance to outwit London’s juggernaut—not by meeting steel with steel, but by exploiting vulnerabilities in the predator city’s overreach. Through clever strategy and a willingness to sacrifice personal glory for the greater good, he stops London’s advance and ignites the first flicker of a new order.

    His personal redemption is complete—not through revenge or conquest, but through wisdom, humility, and love that endures beyond the carnage.

    Why This Works

    By centering the story on a single, emotionally charged romance, every hunt, every diplomatic move, and every battle becomes tied to the protagonist’s personal arc. The love story doesn’t exist in the background — it is the story. The predator cities aren’t just set dressing; they are the means, the obstacle, and the weapon in a war of pride and longing.

    This version would keep the dieselpunk spectacle while giving the audience a reason to care about the outcome beyond “who wins the fight.” Pride and love would drive the plot, the politics would feel sharper, and the final tragedy would land with the force of steel jaws closing. Instead of destruction, this ending offers hope—a protagonist who learns and grows, forging a future that breaks the cycle of endless consumption.

    In short, it would give Mortal Engines what the original sorely lacked: a heartbeat that could be heard over the roar of the engines.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • A Wrinkle in Time (2018): Improving an Unwatchable Story into a Rainy-Afternoon Worthy Adventure

    There are bad movies, there are messy movies… and then there’s Disney’s 2018 A Wrinkle in Time, which manages to make a pile of garbage look like “freshly washed laundry tucked neatly into a carefully painted new wardrobe.” It had a hefty budget, a beloved cast, and source material that’s inspired generations — yet somehow the film plays like someone wrote ideas on index cards, threw them in the air, and filmed whichever ones landed on a dog poo.

    From the get-go, it’s a story without agency. Meg and company are essentially abducted by plot. The three mysterious women arrive out of nowhere, herd the kids along without explanation, and the characters just… go with it. The young genius Charles Wallace, instead of being an interesting wild card, is presented as a flawless wunderkind — a cinematic red flag for boredom. In the movie we got, he turns evil out of nowhere. In the movie we could have gotten, he could’ve been an antagonistic thorn in Meg’s side from the start.

    Giving Meg the Reins

    In our rewrite, the three women aren’t random fairy godmothers — they’re cosmic investigators, looking into a dangerous, unexpected “tessering” event. They suspect it’s connected to Meg’s missing father. Meg, sharp and restless, overhears their conversation and puts two and two together. Instead of being whisked away, she makes a choice: she’s going through that portal.

    She drags Charles Wallace and Calvin with her — Charles against his will, Calvin out of fascination (and maybe a dash of teen awkwardness). This single change flips the movie’s energy. Now Meg’s driving the plot, Charles has a legitimate reason to be irritated with her, and Calvin’s loyal, slightly worshipful presence balances the sibling friction.

    Charles Wallace: The Slow-Burn Villain

    From the moment they leave Earth, Charles questions Meg’s every decision. He doubts her instincts, scoffs at her optimism, and accuses her of chasing a hopeless dream. This isn’t just bickering for the sake of drama — it’s setting the stage for his eventual turn.

    Just as Meg is on the verge of breaking through to her father, Charles’s ego pushes him over the edge. Unwilling to admit she might be right, he gives in to IT’s influence, twisting the fabric of space to keep their father hidden. His transformation isn’t random — it’s the inevitable climax of his arc.

    A Father Lost in the Corners of the Universe

    The original film plops Dad into an empty cosmic room, moping like he’s been waiting for a table at a crowded restaurant. Our version grounds his predicament in lore: tessering requires precise cosmic coordinates and a calm mind. As a newcomer, he overshot his destination and landed in a remote alien village, immediately incarcerated for his different appearance — fed, clothed, but never trusted.

    Stressed and untrained, he couldn’t tesser back even if he wanted to. He doesn’t know Earth’s “vibrational signature,” and every failed attempt sends him in circles. Meg and Calvin must follow faint echoes of his failed tessers to find him — a breadcrumb trail sabotaged by Charles at every step.

    From Under 5 to Solid 6?

    The IMDb score for A Wrinkle in Time sits under 5, the cinematic Bermuda Triangle where films go to be politely forgotten. With stronger character agency, a sibling rivalry that escalates into a meaningful emotional climax, and a father’s plight that makes sense within the story’s own rules, this version could easily climb into the mid-6 range — not perfect, but enough to turn “unwatchable” into “worth a rainy afternoon.”

    In short: give the characters a reason to be there, give the relationships tension, and maybe — just maybe — your flying manta ray moment won’t feel like the idea card that stuck because it has gotten some dog poo on it.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Bright (2017): A Treasure Trove Buried in Chaos — Reforging a New Storyline from the Shards of Potential

    David Ayer’s Bright arrived on Netflix with a bold ambition: merge gritty L.A. cop drama with urban fantasy. It brought orcs, elves, wands, and police politics into one cauldron, and from the first act, it felt like something daring and fresh. The premise was original, the allegories (while clunky) had promise, and the world clearly had depth waiting to be explored.

    But not long into its runtime, the film began to buckle under its own weight. Magic systems were vague and overpowered. Character motivations flickered inconsistently. And the story was ultimately hijacked by lore-dumps, invisible dark lords, and a wand so powerful it could rewrite reality, yet everyone chased it with the logic of a high school hallway fight. What could’ve been a street-smart fantasy ended up feeling like watching two different films wrestle for dominance — with both losing.

    The core problem? Bright wanted to say something, but didn’t know who it wanted to say it through. So let’s fix that.

    Rewriting the Focus: Give Jakoby the Lead, and Let Him Earn the Light

    The heart of Bright — what little of it remains visible under all the clutter — is the orc cop Nick Jakoby. He’s the first orc in the police force. He’s hated by orcs, ridiculed by humans, and distrusted by everyone, including his partner Ward. But what makes him special isn’t magic. It’s his moral compass. His relentless optimism. His quiet resilience.

    So in this revision, Jakoby becomes the true protagonist.

    Everything stays: the scorn, the bullying, the looks. But we deepen it — Jakoby vows to remain positive, refuses to give in to hate, and keeps believing in the good he sees in others. Ward, meanwhile, becomes a test. He’s aggressive, cynical, and deeply uncomfortable with Jakoby. At one point, under pressure, Ward even blames Jakoby for a civilian death to save his own skin. Jakoby doesn’t lash out. He forgives him.

    In another pivotal echo of Ward’s earlier cruelty, Ward dares Jakoby to kill a fairy — like he once did. But Jakoby refuses, recognizing that the fairy, annoying as it may be, did nothing wrong. And so his integrity stays intact.

    All of this leads to the final revelation that Jakoby is a Bright. Not because of bloodlines or hidden lore, but because he is worthy. It would no longer feel like a cameo twist. It would feel earned — like the natural culmination of a moral journey.

    Tone Down the Wand, And Give the Plot a Beating Heart

    The magic in Bright escalates fast. Too fast. A wand that grants any wish is not only lazy — it breaks the world. Instead, let’s restrain its power: the wand can now only resurrect one life per moon cycle. Still immensely powerful, but finite, manageable, and narratively functional.

    And now, it’s not about world-ending threats or vague resurrections of Sauron-like Dark Lords we’ve never seen. The plot becomes sharper: an elven extremist leader has died, and a faction of elves has just three days to bring him back before his soul departs forever. Tikka, once part of their circle, now disillusioned by their cruelty and propaganda, steals the wand and goes on the run.

    That’s where our story begins — not with apocalypses or chosen ones, but with a desperate mission and a deeply personal betrayal. No sky beams. No cults. Just a chase with moral weight.

    Give the Orcs a Voice, and Humans Something to Learn

    In Bright, orcs are set up as an allegory for oppressed groups, but the execution is surface-level. They’re shoved aside, used for quick laughs or cameos, with almost no meaningful screen presence.

    Let’s change that.

    The revised story reveals a social truth that upends what the humans believe: while humans historically hate orcs and romanticize elves, elves have always despised humans — cold superiority masked behind culture and wealth. In contrast, orcs have always admired humans, perhaps even revering them as allies or aspirational partners in society.

    But due to a long campaign of anti-orc propaganda pushed by elven elites, humanity never knew. They chose to believe that the elves, elegant and advanced, were inherently better — and the orcs brutish and savage.

    This adds emotional richness to Jakoby’s journey. He isn’t just the first orc on the force. He’s the first ambassador of truth, forced to prove himself in a world stacked against him, while harboring a deep and genuine love for the very people who mistreat him.

    A Bright Future Earned, Not Bestowed

    In this version, Jakoby’s eventual rise as a Bright isn’t a last-minute twist or a fan-service gimmick. It’s the culmination of everything he’s endured and everything he’s stood for. His arc has meaning. His story has weight.

    And there’s something inherently powerful in that final image: an ugly, ridiculed, gentle-hearted orc becomes Bright—not because he was destined, but because he proved himself worthy. The very idea of “Bright” is redefined—not as magic bloodlines, but as moral clarity and unwavering hope in a world of darkness.

    It’s that contrast—an orc shining with light—that would have made Bright truly brilliant.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Lucy (2014): When Limitless Potential Still Missed Something Profound

    Luc Besson’s Lucy is one of those films that manages to be both intriguing and frustrating at the same time. With Scarlett Johansson in the lead and a pseudo-scientific premise about unlocking the full capacity of the human brain, the movie promises transcendence but ultimately dissolves into abstraction. Watching it unfold feels like witnessing a brilliant idea slipping through the cracks of its own ambition. It’s not that the film lacks vision—it’s that it forgets to ground its cosmic ponderings in something profoundly human.

    There’s undeniable excitement in the movie’s early moments. The pacing is energetic, the stakes feel real, and Johansson commands attention as Lucy—a woman thrown into a nightmare who gains terrifying and exhilarating powers. And then, as her brain capacity increases, the film swerves from thrilling sci-fi into increasingly strange territory. She becomes omniscient, then omnipotent, and finally… omnipresent? The climax is a confusing soup of visuals and voiceovers, capped off with her consciousness vanishing into a thumb drive. It’s not bad in the “terrible movie” sense, but more in the “almost brilliant but lost its way” sense.

    The Pitfall: Intelligence Without Emotion

    The central issue isn’t the science-fiction concept—no one watches a movie like Lucy expecting rigorous accuracy. The problem lies in how the film treats its protagonist’s emotional arc. As Lucy evolves, she detaches. She becomes less human, less relatable, and eventually, barely recognizable. The deeper she goes into unlocking the mysteries of the universe, the less we feel connected to her. And that’s the great paradox: a film about expanding consciousness becomes emotionally hollow.

    The movie flirts with philosophical themes—evolution, knowledge, time, existence—but never marries them to anything personal or meaningful. Morgan Freeman’s character delivers a TED Talk on brain usage percentages, but there’s no true counterpoint or evolution in thought. Lucy, who begins as a frightened, vulnerable woman, is robbed of her emotions before she can process or question what she’s becoming.

    A New Outline: What If Lucy Was Searching for Love?

    Imagine a version of Lucy where the central mystery isn’t the nature of time or space—but the mystery of love.

    The film could open with a different kind of fight between Lucy and Richard. Perhaps something raw, something honest. Lucy, frustrated by a shallow relationship, yells:
    “You don’t even know what love is. You’re not even using half your brain.”
    To which Richard responds:
    “Nobody does. We only use 15%. Look it up.”
    And with a final jab:
    “You don’t need to be smart to know love. You just have to feel it.”

    This emotionally charged exchange could plant the seed for Lucy’s true journey. As she begins to unlock her brain, gaining control over matter, memory, time—she becomes obsessed not with power, but with understanding what love really is. She studies, observes, and even accesses the neural signatures of lovers across time. But the more she learns, the more she realizes love is not something that can be dissected, digitized, or decoded. It can only be experienced.

    This arc gives weight to her transformation. Her detachment would be challenged by longing, by memory, by glimpses of what she missed or dismissed. And in the climax, as the universe seemingly invites her to ascend—become everything, transcend time—she makes a different choice.

    Lucy chooses to stay.

    She chooses to remain in a body, to remain human, to continue learning not with her brain, but with her heart. Not because it’s rational, but because it’s real.

    In this reimagining, the movie doesn’t end with a godlike being dispersing into the cosmos, but with a woman—no longer just powerful, but profoundly present—deciding that the greatest mystery isn’t the universe… it’s love.

    Thanks,

    Ira