Arcaneya

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  • Chaos Walking (2021): A Missed Opportunity to add The Order

    The 2021 film Chaos Walking had everything it needed to be a groundbreaking science fiction adventure. With a fascinating premise, a star-studded cast including Tom Holland and Daisy Ridley, and a renowned author’s source material, it seemed poised for success. Yet, despite these advantages, the film became a box office flop, failing to resonate with audiences and critics alike. The consensus was clear: the movie’s execution never lived up to its imaginative concept. Critics pointed to a cluttered and confusing central premise, a lackluster villain, and a meandering plot that never found its footing. The core idea, that men’s thoughts were audible and visible as “The Noise,” was a brilliant hook, but the film treated it more like a special effect than the foundation of its world. This was a colossal missed opportunity, as the concept of The Noise could have been the driving force behind a truly compelling and emotionally rich character journey.

    The Journey from Inner Chaos to Focused Thought

    The movie should have used The Noise to show a hero’s growth in a way no other film has. Todd Hewitt, as a young man at the beginning of his journey, should have been defined by his uncontrollable Noise—a messy combination of his fears, doubts, and aspirations. We would see this struggle in his everyday life. For instance, when hunting, his fear of failure and the chaos of his inner thoughts would broadcast his every move, making him clumsy and unsuccessful. This would create a powerful and visible internal conflict that the audience could immediately understand.

    The true arc for Todd would then be the journey of learning to control his inner chaos and turn it into focused, purposeful thought. Early on, he would struggle with tasks like climbing a difficult cliff face, his Noise flaring up with every fear of falling. His growth would be shown through small victories where he learns to quiet his mind and focus on the task at hand. By the end of the film, he would not just be controlling his Noise, he would be a master of it. He would have learned that true maturity for a man in this world isn’t about suppressing thoughts, but about focusing them. The chaotic, jumbled Noise would become a clear, powerful projection of his will—a true sign that he has grown into a man.

    The Amplifying Power of Inspiration and Desire

    One of the most profound missed opportunities was the film’s failure to explore how women affect The Noise. In our own lives, men’s feelings and aspirations are often amplified in the presence of women. A man might feel inspired to be a hero, but that inspiration is almost always accompanied by a cacophony of self-doubt: “She won’t like me,” “I’m not good enough,” “She’ll see right through me.” This is the human truth that should have been at the heart of Todd’s relationship with Viola.

    When Todd first meets Viola, his Noise should have exploded with these amplified thoughts. We would see his hopeful visions of being a great hero for her, immediately followed by the deafening thoughts of his own fears and insecurities. This internal chaos would make him act awkwardly and drive Viola away, as she would be understandably wary of his strange behavior. Todd’s journey of mastering his Noise would then be directly tied to his relationship with her. He would have to learn to quiet his negative thoughts not just for himself, but for her, so she would feel safe and not be repelled by his inner turmoil. In the climax, when he finally masters his Noise, he would project his love and focus for Viola with such clarity that she would finally understand his true heart. This would not only be a moment of personal triumph for Todd but also a beautiful, earned payoff for the audience, showing a profound and unique connection between the two characters.

    A Villain with a More Human Desire

    Finally, the villain Mayor Prentiss’s motivation for pursuing Viola felt disappointingly flat. After years of living in a world without women, his relentless chase felt generic, as if he simply wanted her technology. But what if his motivation was far more human and, in a way, more terrifyingly relatable? After living in a world of only men, Prentiss would be driven by a desperate, all-consuming desire to be with a woman again. Viola, being the first woman he’s seen in years, would become the focus of his twisted desires. His pursuit wouldn’t be just for her ship; it would be for her, to have her for himself. This darker, more personal obsession would give his character a more significant and terrifying drive, making him a villain with a purpose rather than just a plan. This would raise the stakes of the film and make the final confrontation between Todd and Prentiss a battle for Viola’s safety, not just a battle for a spaceship.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Red One (2024): No Presents Under This Tree: Why Red One Fell Flat

    Red One (2024) was poised to become the next big holiday blockbuster—starring Dwayne Johnson, Chris Evans, and J.K. Simmons, with a massive budget and a premise that mashed together Christmas mythology and globe-trotting action. But despite all the shiny wrapping, the movie seriously underdelivered both critically and commercially, underperforming at the box office and leaving many viewers wondering: how did a film with this much star power and holiday appeal miss the mark?

    The answer lies in a tangled mess of tone, logic, and storytelling choices that, while flashy on the surface, failed to respect the foundations of myth, character, and emotional weight.

    The Pitfalls of Untethered Magic

    At its core, Red One suffers from a kind of magical overreach. The world is bursting with Christmas tech and enchanted shortcuts—portals, weaponized snowballs, elves dropping toy cars that instantly grow into real vehicles—but none of it feels grounded. There’s no logic, no cost, no internal rulebook. When magic does everything, it ultimately means nothing.

    The villain Gryla is introduced as an ancient, all-hearing force capable of possessing humans across the world with ease… yet somehow she still needs to hire tech hackers for grunt work. This sort of inconsistency tears at the seams of the story. Why does Santa still ride a sleigh through the sky if elves can teleport with ease? Why are security protocols treated like a joke in a universe where Christmas is clearly a high-stakes cosmic engine of belief?

    Without grounded rules, the magic feels more like a child’s chaotic dream than a world we can invest in. The tension collapses, and with it, any sense of real stakes.

    When Reinventing Icons Backfires

    Another key misstep is the film’s approach to reshaping beloved archetypes without earning those changes. J.K. Simmons, while a talented actor, feels wildly miscast as Santa. Bulked up into a buff grandpa, this version of Saint Nick resembles more of a prepper gym coach than a symbol of wonder and warmth. And when characters are altered this drastically, it needs to be for a strong thematic reason—not just novelty.

    But the most egregious case of miscasting comes with Gryla. Rather than embracing the folklore—a terrifying, bitter old witch who eats children—the film casts a sleek, sexy blonde in the role. She doesn’t radiate dread, envy, or spiritual decay; she looks like she wandered off a perfume commercial. And that robs the character of her essence.

    A true villain like Gryla should be ugly, not just visually, but symbolically—an outward manifestation of inward corruption. Someone who wants to destroy beauty because they feel eternally alienated from it. Casting a glamorous figure in that role not only confuses her motivation, but turns her into a Marvel-lite antagonist without mythic presence.

    The irony? That same actress might have worked perfectly in the role of the hacker—slick, modern, sharp. That would have been a better fit both visually and narratively.

    Flat Arcs in a World Full of Chaos

    Character development in Red One is as superficial as its magical logic. Cal, played by Dwayne Johnson, is the biggest missed opportunity. He’s supposed to be the top-tier Christmas operative, the protector of Santa himself, yet after the first successful breach in centuries—on his watch—he barely flinches. There’s no guilt, no reckoning, no meaningful journey.

    A stronger version of this film would give Cal a full emotional arc. After failing to protect Nick, Cal would spiral—becoming desperate, snapping at his team, feeling the weight of a world that’s starting to lose hope. As Christmas draws near, and belief continues to fade, he would hit rock bottom. But in that darkness, he’d reflect, apologize, and finally reconnect with what he once believed in. That spark of rediscovered faith would allow him to see clearly—finally cracking the mystery and leading the team to rescue Santa not just with strength, but with purpose.

    This arc wouldn’t just redeem Cal—it would re-center the movie around the emotional heart it so desperately lacks.

    A Story That Adults Could Actually Believe In

    The biggest tragedy of Red One is that it didn’t need to be this messy. There’s genuine potential in mixing action-adventure with Christmas myth, but only if the emotional stakes and narrative logic are treated with respect. By reimagining the characters with depth, grounding the magic with consequences, and honoring the psychological truth behind its villains, Red One could have been a rare gem: a holiday movie that works for kids and adults.

    Instead, it feels like a child wrote a letter to Santa and a studio tried to film it verbatim.

    Maybe next time, someone will take the sleigh reins and steer this kind of idea toward something more timeless—and far more magical.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Paul (2011): Building a Better Foundation for Character, Stakes, and Payoff

    Paul, the 2011 sci-fi comedy starring the beloved duo Simon Pegg and Nick Frost, held immense promise. The premise of two British sci-fi geeks on an American road trip encountering a wisecracking alien certainly offered fertile ground for humor and heart. Yet, despite its charming performances and scattered comedic gems, the film ultimately left many viewers wanting more. Its narrative often felt meandering, its stakes remained unclear, and crucially, the character arcs for its protagonists were largely non-existent, making for a less cohesive and emotionally resonant experience than it could have been. The foundations felt rushed through, leading to a story that, while amiable, lacked the purposeful drive that elevates a good concept to a great film.

    Forging Purpose from Passive Purgatory

    The core problem lay in the protagonists, Graeme and Clive. They often felt like passengers in their own story, simply “stuck with an alien” rather than active participants with clear motivations for embarking on such a high-stakes adventure. To truly elevate their journey, a new architectural blueprint would establish a much clearer driving force for their actions.

    Imagine a turning point where Paul, the alien, no longer takes their help for granted. He would reach a moment of genuine vulnerability, perhaps after a close call or a revelation of increased danger, and sincerely ask Graeme and Clive for their help. This simple act of Paul expressing need would be the catalyst. In response, fueled by a deep-seated desire for validation and a yearning to transcend their fanboy status, Graeme and Clive would practically jump over each other, eagerly guaranteeing their commitment to escort him safely to the extraction point. Their motivation would shift from mere circumstance to a heartfelt mission to prove themselves as truly “useful friends” and even heroes.

    This newfound purpose would be underscored by a pre-existing foundation in their friendship. Early in their road trip, perhaps during their eagerly anticipated visit to Comic-Con, a minor failure in their friendship would occur. This could be a petty disagreement over an exclusive collectible, one inadvertently leaving the other behind, or a momentary lapse in teamwork during a fan event. This establishes that their bond, while strong, has subtle cracks, giving them something internal to overcome. By helping Paul, they’re not just saving an alien; they’re also subtly redeeming their own friendship, proving their loyalty and capabilities to each other. Furthermore, their Comic-Con haul of costumes, initially just fanboy souvenirs, would gain unexpected utility. They would later employ these very costumes to confidently disguise Paul, turning their niche hobby into a practical, high-stakes camouflage solution. This early setup and later payoff would make the road trip feel less aimless and the tension more potent, driving the story naturally forward.

    Graeme’s Journey: From Awkwardness to Earned Affection

    Beyond the shared mission, a reimagined Paul would carve out a distinct and emotionally resonant arc for Graeme, particularly in his pursuit of Ruth. Simon Pegg’s inherent ability to portray endearing social awkwardness makes him the perfect canvas for a romantic journey fraught with missteps.

    Graeme would initially be portrayed as socially awkward and held back, paralyzed by his inability to make the first move or read crucial romantic cues from Ruth. This charming ineptitude would create early comedic tension and establish his personal hurdle. Observing Graeme’s struggles, Paul, with his alien logic and unfiltered perspective, would step in as the most unlikely of love gurus. His advice would be famously blunt and comically inappropriate, urging Graeme to “look for the cues, and when you see that, grab her for the ass.” This alien-to-human relationship advice would be a constant source of humor, contrasting Paul’s crude pragmatism with Graeme’s nervous longing.

    Graeme might even attempt to follow Paul’s questionable advice at one point, perhaps leading to a hilariously awkward but ultimately harmless moment with Ruth, hinting at a positive response despite the clumsy execution. However, the true payoff for Graeme’s arc would arrive at the climax of the film. After a pivotal moment of crisis, perhaps when Paul uses his powers to heal him, a surge of courage and clarity would wash over Graeme. He would then see a cue from Ruth again, but this time, he would act not on Paul’s literal, crude instruction, but on an authentic understanding that has blossomed within him. He would actively grab her behind the neck and kiss her, a confident, passionate act that marks his complete transformation from hesitant geek to a man capable of genuine, self-assured affection.

    A More Cohesive and Heartfelt Conclusion

    By meticulously addressing these core components—providing clear motivations for Graeme and Clive rooted in both external necessity and internal friendship redemption, integrating their fan-driven passions directly into the plot, and crafting a distinct, relatable romantic arc for Graeme—this reimagined Paul would become a far more cohesive and emotionally satisfying film. The journey would no longer feel aimless; every comedic beat and dramatic moment would serve a higher purpose, contributing to the characters’ growth and the narrative’s forward momentum. The film would transcend its status as a series of funny moments, transforming into a heartfelt story about friendship, self-discovery, and the unexpected connections found on the road, leaving audiences with a memorable, genuinely earned sense of triumph and warmth.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Cop Out (2010): Finding a Core in Chaos

    Cop Out, the 2010 buddy-cop action-comedy starring Bruce Willis and Tracy Morgan, is a film often cited as a significant missed opportunity. Despite its seemingly promising premise and the star power of its leads, it landed with a resounding thud among critics and audiences alike. The common refrain points to fundamental flaws: problems with pacing that make scenes drag or feel disjointed, a glaring lack of genuine chemistry between its two protagonists, and a central plot that strains believability to the breaking point. It’s a movie that feels like it struggled to find its footing, often leaving viewers detached from the action and humor. Indeed, its challenges run so deep that attempting a full architectural overhaul of its entire narrative might feel less like a rescue mission and more like building a new film from the ground up.

    However, even in films with numerous pitfalls, a single, carefully considered adjustment to the foundation can sometimes ripple outwards, creating a much stronger framework for the rest of the story to fall into place. For Cop Out, that pivotal change lies in a bolder, clearer establishment of the dynamic between its two central characters, Jimmy Monroe and Paul Hodges.

    The Contrast That Could Have Been

    The film, as released, missed a crucial opportunity to truly leverage the inherent comedic and dramatic potential of its stars. Instead of a muddled blend, a more deliberate contrast between Jimmy’s inherent calmness and collectiveness and Paul’s hectic, chaotic energy would provide a richer foundation. Imagine Jimmy as the seasoned, unflappable anchor, the embodiment of a strong sense of self and grounded personal power—what some might refer to as a robust solar plexus chakra. This is an archetype Bruce Willis has powerfully embodied throughout his career: the stand-up man, resilient and in control, not easily caught off guard by trivial misfortunes or petty criminals.

    It is precisely this understanding of character that highlights a key “weirdness” in the original film: the initial scene where Jimmy, a hardened detective, is so easily tased and robbed of his valuable baseball card. This moment feels jarring and fundamentally out of sync with the established persona of a character like Jimmy, undermining his believability from the outset. A man with his presumed energetic strength wouldn’t typically find himself in such a casually humiliating and disempowering situation, particularly at the hands of a low-level thief.

    A New Origin for the Chaos

    The architectural solution to this foundational flaw is elegant in its simplicity: entrust Paul with the baseball card in that fateful moment.

    Picture this: Jimmy, needing the funds for his daughter’s wedding, would entrust his prized, perhaps personally significant, baseball card to Paul for a minute while the pawn chop clerk would be getting his expert. It’s in Paul’s hands, amidst his signature hectic energy and perhaps a moment of distraction or overzealousness, that the chaos would erupt. Paul, the well-meaning but often clumsy partner, would be the one to get tased and robbed, inadvertently losing Jimmy’s priceless item.

    This single alteration immediately injects profound motivation and a potent dynamic into the narrative. The rest of the story would then be relentlessly driven by Paul’s overwhelming guilt and his desperate, relentless need for redemption. His character would transform from a source of generic comedic relief into a man on a mission, fueled by a genuine desire to make amends for screwing up his best friend’s life-changing asset.

    This guilt would manifest as Paul being overly apologetic at every turn, his sincere remorse bubbling beneath his chaotic attempts to help. He would become overly ambitious and reckless in his pursuit of the stolen card, constantly complicating matters for the calm and collected Jimmy. This new dynamic would provide endless opportunities for character-driven comedy, as Jimmy’s unflappable nature is continually tested by Paul’s frantic, well-intentioned blunders. Their interactions would cease to be disjointed and would instead be bound by this shared, high-stakes objective, finally creating the genuine chemistry the film sorely needed. The plot would naturally progress through Paul’s attempts to fix his mistake, leading to increasingly complicated scenarios, and setting the stage for an eventual reckoning where he might finally have to calm down and channel his energy effectively to save the day, earning his redemption not through frantic action, but through focused intention.

    This simple shift, from Jimmy as the immediate victim to Paul as the catalyst for their shared plight, creates a far more believable, engaging, and emotionally resonant foundation for Cop Out, allowing its narrative pieces to fall into place with a purpose that was sorely missing.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Dinner for Schmucks (2010): An Architectural Approach to a Flawed Gem

    Dinner for Schmucks, the 2010 comedy starring Steve Carell and Paul Rudd, boasts a concept so inherently brilliant it practically writes itself: a fast-rising executive must bring an “idiot” to his eccentric boss’s monthly dinner party, where the most outrageous guest wins the boss’s favor. On paper, it’s a goldmine for dark humor and sharp social satire, ripe with potential for exploring the absurdities of corporate ambition and the thin line between eccentricity and exploitation. Yet, for many who’ve watched it, the film often leaves a bitter aftertaste. Its core premise, leaning into the mean-spirited proposition of publicly ridiculing an “idiot,” can easily pull viewers out of the experience, transforming potential laughter into discomfort.

    The film’s primary pitfalls stem from what feels less like a meticulously designed narrative and more like an organically grown collection of comedic situations. It operates like a “gardener” tending to individual gags as they sprout, rather than an “architect” constructing a cohesive, purposeful story from a detailed blueprint. This often leads to a meandering plot, where incidents feel episodic and strung together, failing to build towards a clear climax or drive the overarching narrative forward effectively. A persistent feeling lingers that the movie overly relies on pure situational comedy; without a robust underlying structure for character development, this approach ultimately flattens character arcs and dilutes the film’s significant potential impact.

    Reimagining the Premise: A Strategic Shift to Ambiguity

    Imagine, however, a version of Dinner for Schmucks where these foundational flaws are meticulously addressed, transforming its initial premise into a sharper, more resonant dark comedy. This reimagined narrative would begin by introducing a crucial layer of ambiguity regarding the executives’ true intentions. The boss and his cohorts would never explicitly label their desired guests as “idiots” or “schmucks.” Instead, they would cloak their game in corporate euphemisms like “extraordinary individuals,” “unconventional talents,” or “unique perspectives.” Perhaps only a crass, peripheral executive might occasionally slip up with a term like “weirdo” or “oddball,” but it would never be the standard, official terminology of this twisted corporate ritual.

    This strategic ambiguity fundamentally shifts the initial mean-spiritedness from the film’s premise itself to its protagonist, Tim. Now, Tim’s relentless drive to find his “extraordinary individual” isn’t just about following orders; it’s a direct consequence of his own cynical interpretation of the corporate world’s ruthless game. He projects his understanding of cutthroat ambition and social hierarchy onto the boss’s vague directive. This internal conflict—Tim’s own moral compass battling his ambition—becomes the true engine of the story.

    Empowering Tim: An Active Search and Moral Dilemma

    This revised approach empowers Tim with active motivation from the outset. Rather than stumbling upon Barry by sheer coincidence, a narrative shortcut that can feel unearned, Tim would actively embark on a quest to find his “weirdo.” This crucial act of choice immediately elevates the stakes and makes his subsequent actions, and the ensuing chaos Barry inadvertently creates, a direct result of Tim’s own decisions. His agency is paramount, making his journey far more engaging and his eventual reckoning far more impactful.

    His girlfriend, Julie, would serve as the essential external moral compass, her skepticism sharpening his dilemma and offering a contrasting perspective. This dynamic can be established early on. Tim might even first consider an artist from Julie’s own salon, someone like a quirky Kieran, as a potential candidate. This early “Kieran test” would set up Tim’s ambition against Julie’s doubts. “If they want me to find a weirdo, I will find the biggest weirdo out there,” Tim might declare, revealing his intent to push the boundaries of the boss’s “request.” Julie, sensing his cynical intent and perhaps knowing Kieran as merely an eccentric artist, could retort, “But what does ‘weirdo’ even mean to them? Are you sure you know what game you’re playing, or if it’s even a game at all?”

    This initial foray, proving Kieran not “weird enough” for Tim’s calculated purposes, would then propel Tim to seek a truly extraordinary “outlier”—one who fits his aggressive, cynical interpretation of the task. He would actively spot Barry, perhaps observing him from a distance meticulously arranging his elaborate mouse dioramas in a public park, or hearing about his unique, obsessive hobby from a local acquaintance. Tim would then deliberately approach him, assessing him as the perfect pawn for his scheme. This calculated choice makes their eventual bond, and its inevitable unraveling as Tim’s conscience stirs, deeply personal and emotionally resonant.

    The Climax and a More Potent Apology

    The brilliance of this revised outline culminates in the enhanced potency of Tim’s eventual apology. When he finally reaches his moment of reckoning—perhaps during the dinner itself, or shortly thereafter—his remorse isn’t just for accidental harm caused by a random encounter. It’s a profound apology for his own scheming; for deliberately seeking to exploit another human being for personal gain. It’s an apology for his cynical assumptions about others, for willingly participating in what he perceived as a cruel game, and for betraying the trust of both Barry and Julie.

    This shift transforms Dinner for Schmucks from a series of uncomfortable gags into a compelling character study of ambition, morality, and the true cost of chasing success. By making Tim an active participant in his own moral compromise, and by introducing ambiguity into the executives’ initial demands, the film becomes a much richer, more thoughtful dark comedy that critiques the corporate world’s absurdities without resorting to cheap, mean-spirited humor. It evolves from a simple sitcom premise into a story with true heart and a lasting message.

    Thanks!

    Ira

  • Year One (2009) Reimagined: From Disjointed Comedy to a Divine Farce

    The 2009 comedy “Year One” often evokes a peculiar sense of frustration among viewers. On one hand, the film boasted impressive production values. Its ancient, biblical setting was meticulously crafted, offering a visually engaging backdrop for the prehistoric antics. With comedic talents like Jack Black and Michael Cera leading the charge, the potential for a memorable satire felt immense. Yet, despite these strong foundations, the story itself felt profoundly flat and disjointed, often failing to leverage its promising premise.

    One of the film’s primary pitfalls was its inconsistent use of its central magical element: Zed (Jack Black) eating from the forbidden Tree of Knowledge. While this act immediately led to his and Oh’s (Michael Cera) exile, its implications quickly faded into the background. Zed’s newfound “knowledge” never truly defined his journey, nor did it consistently fuel the comedic situations that followed. The plot often meandered through a series of loosely connected biblical encounters, relying on generic stoner comedy tropes rather than sharp, character-driven humor. Characters, including the leads, remained largely static, denying the audience a meaningful arc to follow, even a comically absurd one.

    A New Outline: The Year One Social Justice Warrior

    Imagine an alternative “Year One” where the forbidden fruit’s influence is the very engine of the story. Once Zed bites into that apple, he doesn’t just gain vague “knowledge”; he is suddenly afflicted with the ability to see injustice, inefficiency, and outright evil where everyone else is blissfully unbothered. This new perception becomes his comedic burden and his driving force.

    The film could open with Zed witnessing a primeval “wrong.” Perhaps a smaller, weaker tribesman, Grish, meticulously prepares his hard-won deer for dinner, only for a stronger, brutish caveman, Brutus, to casually snatch it away. Grish, utterly unbothered, simply sighs and picks up a discarded bone, accepting this as the natural order. Or, in an even more immediate display, Zed watches a man making out with a woman, only for a stronger rival to simply grab her and walk away, the original suitor remaining completely unfazed.

    Zed, his mind now searing with righteous indignation, can’t let it stand. He storms in, desperately trying to convince the victim that this was “evil” and they must “do something” about it. Egged on by Zed’s fervent, albeit misguided, arguments, the meek individual might actually attempt to confront the stronger aggressor, only to be effortlessly subdued or, in a darkly comedic twist, even killed. Zed’s first attempt to “correct” an injustice would immediately backfire, demonstrating his incompetence despite his newfound moral clarity.

    But instead of deterring him, this failure would only harden Zed’s resolve. Convinced that his original tribe is too far gone in their blissful ignorance of “evil,” he would declare himself a Year One Social Justice Warrior, setting out into the world with Oh as his terrified, reluctant sidekick, determined to right all the wrongs he encounters.

    His crusade would lead them through the familiar biblical landscape, but with a sharper focus. Zed would meddle in the affairs of Cain and Abel, perhaps trying to mediate their sibling rivalry with disastrous results, or attempting to expose Cain’s wickedness to an oblivious Adam. He might interfere with Abraham’s sacrifice of Isaac, not out of divine command, but because he sees the fundamental evil of child sacrifice. Every intervention, however well-intentioned, would backfire in spectacular fashion, often creating bigger messes or wildly unintended consequences.

    A pivotal moment could see Zed successfully interfere with Jesus’s crucifixion. Through a series of ludicrous arguments or accidental disruptions, Zed might cause enough bureaucratic confusion for the Roman guards to simply postpone or abandon the execution for the day. Zed would leave the scene triumphant, believing he has struck a mighty blow against injustice.

    He would then set his eyes on the infamous city of Sodom. There however, Zed’s journey of “evil-seeing” would take a surprising turn. Initially, the sheer excess, novelty, and superficial allure of the city would overwhelm Zed. He, a simple caveman, would become distracted by its comforts and pleasures, momentarily forgetting his SJW crusade. Oh, ever the anxious realist, would keep his head clear, constantly trying to remind Zed of the true “evil” lurking beneath Sodom’s glitter. He would highlight the rampant inequality, the widespread corruption, and the impending human sacrifice, pleading with Zed to intervene.

    Even after Oh’s persistent pleas, Zed might remain reluctant, too comfortable or too rationalizing to take the drastic action required. It would then take a divine coincidence – a perfectly timed lightning strike, a sudden, powerful gust of wind, or perhaps Zed’s own accidental fumbling with a rudimentary fire-starting device – to inadvertently cause the city of Sodom to burn, seen by its inhabitants as a righteous judgment, but in reality, Zed’s grandest, most chaotic backfire yet.

    Meanwhile, a dejected Jesus would reappear, a direct consequence of Zed’s earlier meddling. He would lament to Zed that nobody cares about his message anymore because he wasn’t martyred. Without the powerful symbolism of his sacrifice, his followers are dwindling, and his teachings lack impact. The dramatic irony would be potent.

    Faced with this unforeseen “evil” caused by his own “good” intentions, Zed would reach his comedic epiphany. His “knowledge of good and evil” would finally deliver its profoundest, most absurd lesson: sometimes, the “evil” must occur for a greater purpose. In a final, hilarious act of “correction,” Zed would resolve to set things right by attempting to convince people to put Jesus back on the cross. The film could culminate with Zed walking alongside Jesus as he carries his cross, not trying to prevent the inevitable, but offering awkward, anachronistic words of encouragement. In a truly unique and strangely touching moment, the Year One SJW would hug the Christ figure before his ultimate sacrifice, a bizarre gesture of understanding and apology.

    A Stronger, Funnier Story

    This revised outline would transform “Year One” from a meandering series of gags into a cohesive, character-driven comedy. Zed’s “evil-seeing” ability provides a clear through-line, fueling consistent humor from his naive outrage and the escalating consequences of his misguided interventions. His journey would become a genuinely funny exploration of moral relativism, the absurdity of human progress, and the unintended impact of even the best intentions. By tying his initial accidental fire back in his village to the ultimate conflagration of Sodom, and his meddling with the crucifixion to its eventual “correction,” the story gains satisfying comedic symmetry and a depth that the original film tragically missed.

    Thank you,

    Ira

  • A Million Ways to Die in the West (2014): Giving Albert Stark a Truly Invincible Arc

    Seth MacFarlane’s foray into the cinematic Western with A Million Ways to Die in the West was, by all accounts, a daring and distinctive venture. It boldly injected his signature brand of irreverent, often anachronistic humor into a genre typically steeped in stoicism and grit. The film certainly had its moments of sharp wit and laugh-out-loud gags, delivering the rapid-fire comedic rhythm that fans of Family Guy and Ted have come to cherish. For many, it was an enjoyable, if audacious, genre subversion. Yet, despite its comedic strengths, the film frequently encountered criticism regarding its narrative cohesion. The story, particularly the journey of its perpetually pessimistic and germ-averse protagonist, Albert Stark, ultimately felt underdeveloped, leading to a climax that, while humorous, didn’t quite resonate with the profound satisfaction it could have achieved.

    The primary hurdle lay in Albert’s character transformation. He began as a perfectly relatable, self-deprecating coward, meticulously cataloging every absurd peril of frontier life. However, his eventual shift into a brave hero felt less like an organic evolution and more like a mandatory plot point. His moments of courage often seemed to arise from external pressure rather than a deep, internal reckoning, leaving his character arc feeling somewhat flat and unearned. Consequently, the resolution, while providing closure, lacked the profound sense of accomplishment and ironic triumph that would truly stick with an audience.

    But what if Albert’s anxieties, the very wellspring of the film’s comedic genius, were not merely a running gag, but the precise internal demons he had to conquer for his heroism to truly shine? Let’s reimagine a pivotal, fear-inducing turning point early in the film. After Albert shares his first tender kiss with Anna, only to be immediately threatened with death by the menacing Clinch Leatherwood, his hyper-analytical, fear-obsessed mind would do what it does best: it would add a new, utterly ludicrous, yet paralyzing, entry to his exhaustive mental compendium of mortal dangers. From that moment forward, somewhere between rattlesnake bites and dysentery, would be etched: “Death by kissing a girl.”

    This singular, preposterous phobia would transform Albert’s entire experience of romance and social interaction. His internal monologues, typically focused on the external dangers of the West, would now also obsess over the deadly implications of intimate contact. He would visibly flinch or recoil whenever he saw couples embracing, delivering hushed, scientifically dubious warnings about the statistical likelihood of violent retribution associated with puckering up. His interactions with Anna, despite his burgeoning affection for her, would become a hilarious tightrope walk of avoidance and awkwardness. He would find ever-more-creative ways to sidestep a kiss – offering a handshake, pointing out a distant cloud formation, or suddenly feigning a severe stomach cramp – creating continuous comedic tension where genuine intimacy should be. This would not just be a running gag; it would be a tangible, frustrating barrier to his happiness and connection.

    His true arc, then, would be the arduous, yet ultimately side-splitting, journey to specifically conquer this absurd, yet crippling, new phobia. The climax of his personal growth would arrive not in a dusty duel, but in a profound moment of courageous vulnerability: Albert’s deliberate decision to defy his own irrational fear and embrace intimacy by sleeping with Anna before the inevitable, high-stakes showdown with Clinch. This act of profound personal courage, born of genuine affection and a defiant rejection of his self-imposed limitations, would be the true, internal catalyst for his transformation from a cynical coward to a man willing to truly live and love. This decision would imbue him with an authentic, earned confidence that transcends mere bravado.

    The payoff for this deepened, more personal arc would be an ending truly befitting Seth MacFarlane’s signature comedic style – utterly ridiculous, yet surprisingly satisfying. As Albert stands against Clinch Leatherwood in the final, tense duel, the physical manifestation of his newfound, utterly absurd confidence would materialize. After Clinch, adhering to his villainous promise, counts to two and fires his shot, his bullet wouldn’t simply miss or be deflected by a conveniently placed object. Instead, it would comically ping off a visible, shimmering orb of light that suddenly surrounds Albert – a literal “aura of invincibility” miraculously forged from his triumph over fear and his intimate union with Anna. With Clinch’s shot humorously deflected, a now supremely confident Albert, perhaps with a newfound, slightly smug smirk, takes his sweet time, counts calmly to three, and definitively dispatches the outlaw. His victory wouldn’t be attributed to a lucky poisoned bullet, but undeniably, and with tongue firmly in cheek, to the “aura of invincibility after f*cking the bad guy’s wife.”

    This expanded narrative not only weaves a continuous thread of specific, character-driven comedic gags throughout the film, but, more importantly, it deepens Albert’s journey into a truly earned transformation. His flat arc blossoms into a satisfying, character-driven narrative where his internal growth directly influences his external triumph. This version transforms his complaints from mere observations into obstacles he personally overcomes, culminating in a gloriously absurd, highly memorable, and supremely fulfilling comedic victory that finally allows the cowardly sheep farmer to become the undefeated man of the West, on his own hilariously invincible terms.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Fantastic Beasts – The Crimes of Grindelwald (2018): Fixing the Bonkers Story

    The original cinematic release of Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes of Grindelwald regrettably presented a narrative often described as “straight-up bonkers” (Cinemasins Youtube) and a “muddled masterpiece of missed opportunities.” Its convoluted plot, a surprisingly meek villain whose motivations felt abstract and indistinct, and a central protagonist, Newt Scamander, who lacked a discernible character arc, all contributed to a pervasive sense of “mumbo jumbo.” The film’s reliance on convenient plot shortcuts like a poorly explained blood pact, inconsistent magical rules regarding travel and escape, and a climax featuring an ambiguous magical portal, left audiences feeling confused and disengaged. It became clear that the story, in its attempt to be grand and sprawling, ultimately fell under the weight of its own ambition.

    However, the very flaws that plagued the original film can serve as guideposts for a more compelling and coherent alternative. Imagine a version of The Crimes of Grindelwald that intentionally inverts some of these issues, creating a narrative far more impactful and emotionally resonant.

    An Alternative Outline

    In this reimagined story, Grindelwald’s escape at the outset remains a crucial event, but its immediate aftermath is shrouded in unsettling silence. The world does not erupt into overt magical warfare, nor do we witness Grindelwald immediately broadcasting his grand ambitions. Instead, a more insidious and chilling “weirdness” begins to seep into the global wizarding community. This would manifest as subtle, yet deeply disturbing, voting inconsistencies within the various Ministries of Magic worldwide. Reports would emerge of strange political maneuvering, inexplicable policy shifts, and the quiet, almost undetectable, takeovers of these crucial governing bodies, one by one. Furthermore, whispers would spread of changes in long-held magical statutes, seemingly allowing for a gradual dismantling of the Statute of Secrecy and subtle infiltrations of Muggle governments.

    Against this backdrop of creeping, systemic change, our protagonist, Newt Scamander, undergoes a profound transformation. Rather than remaining a reactive, reluctant participant, Newt becomes hell-bent on keeping the wizarding world a secret and in delicate balance with Muggles. He is no longer just a magizoologist; he is an eloquent and passionate proponent for this ideology. He would be expressive about its vital importance, offering articulate arguments for why coexistence and the preservation of magical secrecy are paramount. In this version, Newt truly stands as the leader of this fundamental belief, even more so than Albus Dumbledore, who, burdened by his past and perhaps the enigmatic constraints of the blood pact, would largely follow Newt’s ideological lead, offering guidance and strategic support from the shadows.

    This fundamental reorientation of the narrative immediately addresses the original film’s most significant shortcomings and places the story on far stronger footing. Grindelwald’s threat sheds its “meek” quality, transforming into a terrifying, insidious form of political and societal manipulation that directly opposes Newt’s core convictions. He is no longer just a generic dark wizard; he is the precise, ideological antagonist to Newt’s vision of a balanced world. The slow-burn introduction of Grindelwald’s influence through quiet coups and legal subversion fosters a deepening sense of dread and mystery, rather than overwhelming the audience with immediate, unexplained spectacle.

    Newt, now a proactive and ideologically driven protagonist, gains a compelling and deeply personal arc. His journey becomes a fight not just for his friends or for creatures, but for the very soul of the wizarding world and the principles he so passionately defends. Dumbledore’s role becomes clearer and more poignant: a powerful figure, wise from past mistakes, who sees Newt as the untainted champion necessary for this particular battle, even as he navigates his own personal limitations. This ideological clash between Newt’s ardent belief in balance and Grindelwald’s creeping fascism becomes the true engine of the plot, imbuing every discovery and confrontation with heightened stakes and emotional resonance. What once felt like “much ado about nothing” transforms into a desperate, principled fight for the future of two worlds, mirroring the battles within Newt’s own mind as he steps from the quiet comfort of his creatures into the perilous arena of global politics.

    This conceptual framework lays a strong foundation for a story where every twist, every challenge, and every character choice would serve a clearer, more impactful narrative. While this vision implies a significant departure from the original film, it offers a pathway to a more cohesive, character-driven, and ultimately more satisfying chapter in the Fantastic Beasts saga.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • Godzilla (2014): From Spectacle to True Reckoning – A Reimagined Narrative

    The 2014 return of Godzilla to the silver screen was an undeniable visual triumph. Its sheer scale, the awe-inspiring creature design, and the palpable sense of immense power the titular monster exuded delivered on the promise of colossal kaiju action. Audiences were treated to breathtaking sequences of destruction and epic monster-on-monster combat, making the film undeniably watchable for its spectacular display. Yet, for all its visual grandeur, Godzilla (2014) often felt like a monster movie where the human story largely took a backseat, leaving viewers to witness grand-scale property damage without a deeply compelling human narrative at its core.

    The primary human protagonist, Ford Brody, while competent, struggled to carry the emotional weight necessary to anchor such a monumental story. And the early, abrupt departure of Joe Brody, initially the film’s most intriguing and emotionally resonant character, felt like a significant misstep, severing the audience’s strongest connection to the mystery and the unfolding horror. Furthermore, the film presented Godzilla as an “alpha predator,” a “balancer of nature” primarily engaged in battling other colossal threats like the MUTOs. While this provided plenty of action, it detached Godzilla from the profound allegorical weight he carried in his very first appearance. In the original 1954 Japanese classic, Gojira, the monster was a terrifying, undeniable manifestation of humanity’s nuclear sins – a direct consequence and punishment for the atomic age. The 2014 reboot, in choosing to portray Godzilla as merely battling other monsters, largely bypassed this deeper, more resonant thematic connection to human accountability, reducing the destruction to collateral damage rather than a terrifying reckoning.

    An Alternative Outline

    Imagine, then, a Godzilla that retains the visual brilliance but imbues every monstrous roar and every tremor with a chilling, profound meaning. Our reimagined story would plunge audiences into a near-future 2020s, a world teetering on the brink. A devastating, protracted global conflict, perhaps between the West and the Middle East, escalates to a horrifying zenith. In an act deemed “unthinkable” yet ultimately authorized, a nuclear bomb is dropped by the West onto a populated region, causing untold suffering and the death of countless innocent civilians. The immediate aftermath is one of unimaginable devastation and global condemnation.

    But from the smoldering, irradiated ruins of this man-made hell, something truly monstrous begins to stir. Out of the lingering, toxic radiation, a creature is born – a nascent Godzilla. He is not yet the colossal titan we know, but large enough to inspire immediate terror, feeding insatiably on the lingering nuclear energies. Governments, still reeling from their catastrophic decision, dispatch military forces to contain this terrifying, impossible birth. In a desperate, arrogant attempt to annihilate their own horrifying creation, they authorize another nuclear strike, a seemingly “surgical” operation aimed directly at the growing beast. Yet, the unthinkable happens again: the immense explosion does not destroy Godzilla; instead, it provides him with an immense surge of power, making him visibly bigger, stronger, and even more terrifyingly resolute.

    This amplified Godzilla, a living testament to humanity’s hubris and its inability to learn, then begins an inexorable, purposeful march. He is drawn by an instinctual hunger, heading directly for the nearest nuclear power plant. As he approaches and begins to feed on its core, the energy consumption causes catastrophic overloads and cascading explosions that not only devastate the plant itself but wreck nearby cities with their sheer, uncontainable force. With each consumed plant, Godzilla swells further, growing into the gargantuan force of nature we recognize.

    The world watches in horrified realization as the pattern becomes terrifyingly clear: their own destructive energy source is fueling their destroyer. Military might is useless; every attempt to combat him with conventional or nuclear means only amplifies his power. This forces a desperate, global reckoning. Governments, driven by a primal fear of annihilation, are compelled to initiate an unprecedented, frantic scramble to dismantle all nuclear power plants within Godzilla’s projected path, a monumental task fraught with danger and impossible deadlines. This desperate act forces humanity into a radical shift, an immediate and painful transition away from the very power source that both fueled their civilization and spawned their doom.

    As the physical world grapples with this apocalyptic transformation, humanity’s spiritual landscape undergoes an equally profound shift. Across continents, people, stripped of their reliance on technology and military protection, turn to something deeper. Churches overflow, mosques fill to capacity, and temples are packed with worshippers. Lines stretch for blocks outside confession chambers, as a collective sense of guilt for humanity’s actions – the wars, the bombs, the environmental destruction – washes over the populace. The world is on its knees, praying not just for salvation, but for understanding, for atonement.

    In this reimagined narrative, Godzilla is not simply a monster to be defeated, but a terrifying mirror. His power would wax and wane with humanity’s commitment to change. The ending would symbolize not his destruction by force, but a profound shift in humanity: as nuclear power is dismantled and a new, humbler, more sustainable way of life is painfully adopted, Godzilla would begin to lose power, eventually retreating, a silent, awe-inspiring testament to humanity finally taking responsibility for its hubris. Yet, the monstrous presence would not vanish entirely; he would recede into the planet’s depths, a lurking shadow, waiting to resurface should humanity ever again stray too far into the destructive paths of its past.

    This transformation would elevate Godzilla from a visually spectacular monster movie to a truly profound, emotionally resonant, and highly relevant story about humanity’s capacity for repentance, collective action, and the enduring consequences of our own destructive nature.

    Thanks!

    Ira

  • Wicked (2024): Forging a More Earned Path to Green

    Wicked: Part One has landed with a splash, captivating audiences and critics alike with its vibrant spectacle, powerful musical numbers, and the undeniable star power of its lead performers. With a Rotten Tomatoes score that speaks volumes, it’s clear the film resonates broadly, delivering much of the magic fans of the beloved Broadway musical have longed for. Yet, even in its success, Wicked inherits and, by its very premise, reinforces a narrative dilemma that has quietly lingered since the original novel and stage production: the inherent “wickedness” of Elphaba Thropp.

    The story, as currently told, posits that Elphaba is born with green skin, immediately marking her as an “other” and setting her on a path of perceived villainy. While this birth defect is meant to symbolize society’s prejudice and her eventual misunderstanding as the Wicked Witch of the West, it inadvertently introduces a deeply problematic undertone. The very idea that a physical trait, present from birth, could predestine a character to be feared or labelled “wicked” feels narratively unsatisfying and, to many, philosophically flawed. It clashes with the very notion of free will and personal accountability, suggesting a character’s destiny is sealed by biology rather than choice. This presents a unique challenge for a story striving to champion individuality and fight against predetermined roles. If her greenness is innate, her journey becomes less about active transformation and more about reacting to a fate she never chose.

    This intrinsic conflict within the narrative often leads audiences to wish for an alternative resolution for Elphaba. One might argue that it would be far more believable and emotionally resonant to see Elphaba truly struggle with her uniqueness—whether it be her magical abilities or an initially ambiguous physical trait—and eventually own it, transforming into a positive, even admired, figure for her defiance and power. Such an arc would celebrate self-acceptance and show society learning to appreciate what it once feared, aligning perfectly with the musical’s overarching themes of prejudice and acceptance. This version of Elphaba would become a symbol of triumphant individuality, a beacon of hope for all “others” in Oz, truly embodying the spirit of “defying gravity” by carving her own noble path.

    A True Path To Villainy

    However, there is another, perhaps more powerful, narrative road less traveled—one that fully embraces the tragic arc of a villain, making Elphaba’s descent into “wickedness” a chillingly earned consequence of her own choices, rather than an unfortunate destiny. Imagine a version of Oz where Elphaba is born as any other child, perhaps with an extraordinary magical talent, but otherwise outwardly normal. Her journey to becoming the vivid green figure of legend would then be a visceral, physical manifestation of her own moral corruption.

    In this reimagined narrative, Elphaba’s powerful abilities would initially lead her to explore the boundaries of free will—and perhaps, the temptation of control. She might delve into creating a destructive spell or curse, one that allows her to manipulate events or individuals to her advantage. At first, like any brilliant mind unburdened by ethical constraints, she might revel in this new power, enjoying the ease with which she can achieve her desires. She might use it in small, seemingly innocuous ways, then escalating, rationalizing each step as she pushes the limits.

    The first hint of her true descent would manifest as a subtle, almost imperceptible physical change. Her skin might acquire a faint green tinge, a barely noticeable discoloration. This would serve as a grim, outward sign, a consequence of her actions and the internal toxicity of her negative thoughts. It’s a metaphorical poisoning of the liver, as it were, reflecting the spiritual and moral decay within.

    The critical turning point, the true “uprising of a villain,” would occur when the destructive nature of her curse is finally exposed, and she is confronted with the undeniable evidence of her misdeeds. Faced with the truth, instead of admitting fault or seeking redemption, Elphaba would double down on her malevolence. She would lie, cheat, manipulate, and relentlessly weasel herself out of any accountability. This moment would define her as a true antagonist: a refusal to repent, a stubborn unwillingness to amend her ways. Her descent would not be a misunderstanding, but a deliberate choice to embrace self-preservation and power over truth and morality.

    It is at this point, as she fully commits to this path of unrepentant villainy, that her physical transformation would be complete. Her skin would turn a vivid, unmistakable green, an irreversible mark of her soul’s corruption. She doesn’t become wicked because she’s green; she becomes vividly green because she has chosen to be wicked. This makes her transformation not just visually dramatic but profoundly earned, a powerful and tragic symbol of a great talent consumed by her own dark choices.

    This fundamental re-imagining of Elphaba’s core arc would ripple through the entire narrative, imbuing every interaction and choice with deeper meaning. Glinda’s struggle would become even more poignant as she witnesses her friend’s active embrace of darkness. The Wizard’s propaganda would gain more traction because it’s based on a visible, earned consequence. Ultimately, this approach would transform Wicked from a story about a misunderstood hero into a far more complex and compelling exploration of how free will, unchecked ambition, and a refusal to take responsibility can tragically create a true villain, directly leading to the unequivocally evil Wicked Witch of the West from the 1939 film, making her eventual fate a devastating, yet utterly earned, reckoning. This revised arc would also resolve the inherent cognitive dissonance viewers might feel, where the original film famously celebrates the Witch’s demise, by providing a tragic yet justifiable end for a character who actively chose a path of wickedness.

    Thanks,

    Ira