Tag: Black Adam

Black Adam arrived with strong momentum. The opening half of the movie had tension, clarity, and spectacle: an ancient antihero awakened, a clash with the Justice Society, and a city caught between freedom and destruction. It worked because the story had rules. Adam was immensely powerful, yet vulnerable to Eternium. He was brutal, yet bound by his own sense of justice. For a while, it felt like the movie had its footing.

But somewhere in the second half, the logic started to unravel. Adam simply decided to give up his powers, surrendered to the Justice Society, and allowed himself to be locked away. What should have been a dramatic turning point instead felt like a stalling tactic. To make matters worse, the Justice Society — the supposed voice of order and morality — ended up apologizing to Adam later, undercutting their role as the moral backbone of the film.

It is true, that Adam is different. In traditional storytelling, heroes go through a dark night of the soul. They’re brought low, they repent, and then they rise above their flaws. But Adam is not a traditional hero. He’s an antihero — and in that archetype, the crucial step of apology is deliberately skipped. Antiheroes grow through more or less forceful actions, not through repentance. They are defined by their refusal to bend to the world’s rules. So why would heros then bow to them?

A Different Way Forward

Taking this into account, the second half of Black Adam could have unfolded with more bite and more tension. In the beginning, the film established that Adam was vulnerable to Eternium — a weakness that was never used again. In a reimagined outline, Eternium would return as the Justice Society’s trump card, the one way they could bring Adam down.

The clash would escalate when Adam kills a civilian by accident, or through negligence. Not a faceless extra, but someone we’ve come to know and care about — maybe a friendly figure from Kahndaq who reminded Adam of what he once lost. The moment might even happen in the heat of the battle with Sabbac, where Adam’s destructive methods blur the line between justice and collateral damage.

This would be the Justice Society’s breaking point. They finally lose their composure and use Eternium to pin Adam down. For once, he is not surrendering of his own will — he’s being forced into a cage. And here comes the crucial twist: the Society tries to force an apology out of him. Hawkman demands it. Doctor Fate attempts to reason with him. Adrianna pleads with compassion. But Adam never apologizes. It’s simply not who he is.

When Sabbac’s rise threatens them all, the Justice Society realize they have no choice. They need Adam. With no apology in hand, they must settle for releasing him and learning to fight alongside someone they cannot tame. This uneasy truce would carry the tension through the entire third act, so that every moment of their alliance feels unstable, dangerous, and necessary.

An Antihero’s Apology Without Words

And while Adam never says “sorry,” he would still show growth in his own way. Near the end, he could repeat one of his casual gestures from earlier in the film — throwing a civilian out of harm’s way with reckless force. But this time, he catches him. Literally. He swoops back, retrieves the civilian, and sets them down safely before resuming the fight. It’s the closest he’ll ever get to an apology, and it says more than words could. Plus, it lets the film close on a slightly humorous beat — Adam doesn’t change who he is, but he learns to temper his destruction just enough to protect the people he claims to fight for.

Conclusion

By reworking the second half in this way, the story would hold its tension all the way through. Adam would never be declawed by a hollow surrender, the Justice Society would retain their spine, and the uneasy alliance at the end would feel earned instead of awkward. Most importantly, the antihero’s arc would stay true to its nature — no cheap apologies, only actions that prove he’s capable of growth without losing his edge. That’s the version of Black Adam that could have turned its messy second half into something bold, memorable, and fitting for the antihero it set out to portray.

Thank you!

Ira

Black Adam began with promise. The first half of the film carried weight—an antihero awakening after centuries, clashing with the Justice Society, and a city torn between hope and destruction. But somewhere past the midpoint, the story lost its footing. Plot threads tangled, character arcs diffused, and one of the most glaring examples of lost logic was the treatment of the mystical crown of Sabbac.

The Crown Logic That Didn’t Add Up

The crown is introduced with an ominous scripture: “Death is the only way to life.” A neat bit of foreshadowing—except the way the film handled it felt like narrative gymnastics. Ishmael, the villain, kidnaps young Amon and taunts Black Adam with the situation, believing Adam will strike him down. Ishmael’s plan? To be killed by Adam while wearing the crown, fulfilling the prophecy and returning as Sabbac.

But here’s the problem: how would Ishmael know Adam would play along? Why wouldn’t he stage his own death instead of relying on his enemy to do it? It’s a ludicrously fragile plan, hinging on unpredictable choices. And when it does play out, the logic falters even more—Adam kills Ishmael, who resurrects from some distant water pit, while the crown back on the Justice Society’s ship conveniently disintegrates. The geography and mechanics of it all leave the audience scratching their heads.

Dodging the Cliché, But Losing Clarity

It’s clear what the writers were trying to do. They didn’t want the tired trope of “villain puts on the MacGuffin and turns into the big bad.” That’s been done in superhero films for decades. But in trying to dodge the cliché, they tied themselves in knots. Instead of clarity and inevitability, the crown subplot became contrived and confusing.

A Cleaner Alternative: The Crown as a Trap

What if the crown wasn’t an instant power-up but a deadly trial? A cursed object that kills anyone who dares wear it. That’s why it’s guarded so fiercely—not because it’s a simple key, but because it’s a death sentence. The wearer is reduced to ash. Only then, if the underworld deems the sacrifice worthy, does the person remanifest as Sabbac.

Imagine how much stronger this would play in the film. Ishmael dons the crown, confident in his destiny. He’s incinerated before everyone’s eyes—a shocking, seemingly final defeat. The Justice Society brings the crown back to their ship and puts it into its showcase, believing the threat ended. But then, in their very midst, Ishmael rematerializes as Sabbac beneath the crown’s resting place, catching them off guard. The resurrection feels immediate, tied to the crown, and organically escalates the tension.

Why This Fix Works Better

This alternative keeps the prophecy intact, avoids a hostage contrivance, and doesn’t require Sabbac to emerge from a remote, disconnected location. Instead of the villain’s return feeling like a clumsy afterthought, it becomes the natural consequence of his ambition and the crown’s curse. The Justice Society is implicated too—their decision to “safely” put the crown away is exactly what allows Sabbac to rise.

Conclusion

The crown subplot is a small part of Black Adam, but it’s emblematic of where the film stumbled. The first half set up intriguing conflicts, only for the second half to spiral into contrivances and confused logic. By reframing the crown as a deadly trial rather than a vague prophecy puzzle, the story would have avoided backflips, delivered a cleaner resurrection for Sabbac, and tied the climax more closely to the main characters. Sometimes leaning into a trope with a twist is better than dodging it with convolution.

Thank you,

Ira