Arcaneya

Tag: alternative outline

  • Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets (2017) – Making the Love Story Matter

    When Valerian and the City of a Thousand Planets hit theaters, I was thrilled at the prospect of a new sci-fi epic. A fresh universe. Strange aliens. Stunning worldbuilding. And most of all, a rare opportunity for an original space opera in a cinema landscape crowded with reboots and franchises. From the very start, the film looked and felt like a visual marvel. Luc Besson’s vision of the intergalactic city of Alpha, the colorful markets, the alien cultures — all of it carried the vibrant creativity reminiscent of The Fifth Element. It should have been a triumphant return to this kind of world-spanning, genre-blending storytelling.

    But it wasn’t.

    Instead, Valerian became one of those painful cinematic experiences where the potential shines through the cracks, only to be suffocated by a story that doesn’t understand itself. Its heart is muddled. Its tone confused. And despite flashes of genius, it collapses under the weight of a love story it doesn’t earn, a protagonist it doesn’t challenge, and a plot that favors movement over meaning.

    The core issue begins with Valerian himself — a character who never quite knows who he is. The film tries to present him as a cocky but capable space agent, a rogue with a heart of gold. But instead of charm, we’re given posturing. Instead of depth, we’re given smirks and forced flirtation. His obsession with Laureline is played for laughs, then pivoted to serious proposal-level romance within the opening ten minutes, leaving the audience without any emotional foothold. Why should we care if he loves her, when nothing has been shown — only told?

    Laureline, for her part, is actually one of the film’s more grounded elements. Cara Delevingne plays her with surprising control: composed, intelligent, resistant to Valerian’s nonsense. But even she is undermined by the script, reduced to a reactive character when she should have been co-leading the story. The worst sin of all, however, is what the film does to their relationship. It tells us they’re meant to be, but never lets us feel it. It throws them into situations together, but never gives them space to grow — to change.

    Which is a shame, because buried underneath the bombastic visuals and disjointed plot is a story aching to be told: a story about love, ego, and identity in the middle of a collapsing empire. But for it to work, everything would need to shift.

    The re-imagined outline

    Let’s imagine what Valerian could have been, if it had trusted the emotional journey as much as the visual spectacle.

    We begin the same way: Valerian is a top agent, decorated and brave — but emotionally immature. His obsession with Laureline isn’t romance; it’s insecurity. He’s clinging to her because she’s the one thing he thinks can make him whole. He bombards her with dinner invitations. Gifts. Empty promises. He uses his successes to boast in front of her, hoping she’ll fold under the weight of his charm. But she doesn’t. She’s suffocating.

    After a string of failed attempts, she finally relents and agrees to a dinner just to quiet the noise. But it doesn’t work. He goes overboard, presenting her with an entire floating sky-lounge experience, awkwardly overcompensating while she barely touches her drink. She doesn’t want to be conquered — she wants to be heard. When she tells him this, he doesn’t know how to respond. He’s never had to listen before.

    Their next mission forces them together, right when she’s finally begun to set emotional boundaries. The tension is thick. They operate like professionals, but the strain is evident. During a critical moment in the mission, Valerian makes a unilateral call. It goes wrong. People get hurt. Laureline is furious.

    She calls him out — not for the mistake, but for the mindset.

    “You said you changed,” she says. “But you’re still trying to write the story where you’re the hero and I’m just the sidekick.”

    They split for a while — mission protocol demands it — and Valerian, wounded and directionless, ends up wandering the strange districts of Alpha alone. That’s when he stumbles into the shapeshifter bar and meets Bubble.

    In the original film, this sequence felt random and disconnected. But here, it becomes a natural consequence of Valerian’s downward spiral after screwing up with Laureline again. And a proper place for a turning point. Bubble doesn’t just entertain him — she sees through him. Morphing into pieces of his ego, pieces of Laureline, and finally into himself, she speaks the truth he’s been avoiding:

    “You think you love her. But you just need her to make sense of yourself.”

    Her words don’t fix him. But they crack something open. And when she’s gone — whether through sacrifice or departure — Valerian is left with nothing but silence and guilt. And finally, clarity.

    On the next phase of the mission, he’s alone. He’s lost track of Laureline. Her beacon has vanished. Panic starts to rise in him again — the old reflex: chase, control, force. But this time, he stops. He puts his hand on his chest. He breathes. And in the middle of this chaos, something shifts.

    He doesn’t run. He listens.

    In that stillness, he remembers her. Not as a prize. Not as a mission objective. But as someone who lives within him now — not because she’s his, but because he’s finally opened space in himself to understand her.

    He starts to move again. Calmer. Sharper. Following a trail not of tech or orders, but of instinct — the kind he’s finally earned.

    When he finds her, she looks at him with both suspicion and relief. There’s a beat of silence between them. And then she asks:

    “How did you find me?”

    He smiles, not with swagger, but with quiet resolve.

    “I stopped looking.”

    Because he wasn’t chasing her anymore. He was walking beside her. Even when she wasn’t there.

    This version of Valerian becomes more than just a stylish space adventure. It becomes a story about letting go — of ego, of performance, of the need to be loved in a certain way. It allows its characters to fall apart before they come together. It allows love to be earned, not assumed. It lets Laureline remain strong without being distant, and lets Valerian become real without losing his edge.

    These changes wouldn’t just “fix” the movie. They’d transform it.

    Valerian could have been a space opera about emotional maturity — a spectacular sci-fi tale where the real heroism wasn’t the action, but the ability to see someone else clearly, and still choose to change. The city of a thousand planets didn’t need saving. Its agents did.

    And this time, maybe they could save themselves.

    Thanks!

    Ira

  • The Matrix Resurrections (2021): A Fan’s Reflection on What Could Have Been

    As a longtime fan of the original Matrix trilogy, I remember the thrill of watching Neo, Trinity, and Morpheus battle for freedom inside a digital world. The story felt complete when Neo sacrificed himself at the end of Revolutions, ending the war against the machines and bringing peace—at least for a time. So when the announcement of The Matrix Resurrections came, I was cautiously curious but hesitant. Something felt off from the very start. Maybe it was the fact that both Neo and Trinity died in the previous installment, a conclusion that felt weighty and, to my mind, difficult to simply undo. Reversing death in a story requires real care to avoid cheapening the emotional stakes. For that reason, I initially decided not to watch the new film. But eventually, I gave in, and when I did, I was left with mixed feelings.

    The Matrix Resurrections had a promising premise: Neo and Trinity are alive again, their story continuing. Yet, despite some moments of visual style and meta-commentary, the film quickly became a confusing and fragmented experience. It struggled under the weight of its own ideas, faltering between self-awareness, satire, and a romantic drama, while the core story got lost in exposition dumps and underdeveloped characters. The narrative felt hesitant, as if it was afraid to trust its own boldness.

    One of the biggest issues was how the film handled its central resurrection. Neo and Trinity’s revival was almost brushed aside, with only fleeting lines that failed to connect emotionally or thematically. The story leaned heavily on new characters and side plots that rarely came together into a coherent whole. Neo himself often felt passive, swept along by forces he barely understood. Trinity, arguably the other half of the heart of the saga, was sidelined for much of the film, reintroduced late and without the depth her character deserved. And the villain, the Analyst, while intriguing in concept, often came across as a mere mouthpiece for the annoying exposition rather than a real threat. The film’s tone oscillated awkwardly between moody seriousness and sarcastic humor, leaving the stakes unclear and the tension flat.

    But beneath all of this lies a seed of a better story. A story that could have embraced the challenge of bringing Neo and Trinity back in a way that respects their journey, their sacrifice, and their power—not as superheroes, but as deeply human beings fighting for their own freedom.

    This time, they are on their own

    What if, after Neo defeated Agent Smith at the end of Revolutions, the machines did not destroy him but instead recognized the colossal value embedded in his unique neural code? They recovered his body and, in a similar fashion, found and salvaged Trinity as well. Instead of erasing them, they placed both into advanced medical pods—biomechanical cocoons designed to regenerate their damaged tissue and preserve their minds in stasis.

    Slowly, Neo and Trinity were reinserted into a new iteration of the Matrix, their minds wiped clean to prevent rebellion. They woke up separately, each in their own apartment, with throbbing headaches and no memory of their past lives. The entire trilogy—their adventures, their sacrifices—felt like nothing more than an exhaustive dream.

    This sets the stage for a new, deeply intimate story: Neo and Trinity must break out of the Matrix this time on their own. There is no crew to rescue them, no red pills handed down by rebels. Instead, they will have to slowly piece together their fractured memories, regain their abilities, and rediscover each other—astonished by what they once were and what they still might be.

    Neo, living under the alias Thomas Anderson, begins to sense the cracks in his reality through strange, recurring dreams. His skepticism grows, especially about his therapist, the Analyst—a cunning program designed to keep him subdued. Suspicious, Neo secretly switches to another therapist, one who listens and takes his fragmented memories seriously. This therapist becomes a key ally in his awakening. But the Analyst is not blind to this shift; disturbed and cornered, he begins to falter, resorting to increasingly aggressive gaslighting and manipulative tactics to keep Neo under control.

    Amid this internal struggle, Neo channels his restless energy and confusion into creating a video game inspired by his dreams—a surreal, cryptic experience that mirrors the Matrix itself. This game attracts attention, especially from Trinity’s son, who becomes captivated by it. This connection stirs something dormant in Trinity herself, awakening faint echoes of her true self. She seeks Neo out.

    When Neo tentatively mentions Tiffany—the new identity of Trinity—to the Analyst, he meets a harsh response. The Analyst orders Neo to stay away from her, insisting their bond is a dangerous delusion. Neo tries to comply, but his instincts and the magnetic pull between them are too strong to resist. Inevitably, Trinity seeks Neo out, and their reunion sends ripples through the Matrix’s code, accelerating their recovery and threatening the Analyst’s control.

    Together, Neo and Trinity face the daunting challenge of figuring out how to awaken from their pods in the real world. This isn’t a passive unplugging but an active fight—against the Analyst and his digital enforcers. Their confrontation is not one of mere physical combat but a battle of wills, of identity and freedom, where love and intention become weapons powerful enough to bend reality.

    Finally, through their combined strength and mutual trust, they succeed. They break free of the emotional and code restraints binding them. Awakened and vulnerable, they find themselves submerged in their pods, naked and weak but alive. From the heights of the machine city, they must climb down into the devastated world below. Together, they step onto scorched earth, no longer gods or heroes, but two people walking side by side toward Zion—the last beacon of human freedom.

    Finishing thoughts

    This reimagined narrative shifts The Matrix Resurrections from a muddled sequel into a profound meditation on identity, love, and choice. It returns Neo and Trinity to the center of the story, granting them agency and a believable emotional arc. Their escape is no longer a deus ex machina but a hard-earned victory, forged through memory, shared experience, and willpower.

    Instead of relying on flashy action or convoluted exposition, this version embraces quiet moments of realization and psychological depth. Neo’s creation of the video game becomes a metaphor for his subconscious struggle, while Trinity’s gradual awakening illustrates the power of connection beyond memory. The Analyst’s role transforms into a chilling but nuanced antagonist who understands their pain and tries to exploit it, making the final confrontation a meaningful clash of ideologies rather than just spectacle.

    Most importantly, this story honors the themes that made The Matrix so resonant in the first place: the search for truth in a manufactured world, the rebellion of the self against control, and the transformative power of love and choice.

    In the end, it is not about flying through the skies or wielding godlike powers. It is about two flawed, real people choosing to walk together—toward freedom, toward each other, and toward a future they will define on their own terms.

    That is the story The Matrix Resurrections could have told. And it would have been a story worthy of the legacy.

    Thanks,

    Ira