Tag: will smith

  • Aladdin (2019): An Archetypal Story Analysis — Close to Perfect, with One Structural Gap

    Released in 2019, Aladdin arrived carrying a complicated inheritance. As a live-action reimagining of a beloved animated classic, it was received with a mix of curiosity, skepticism, and nostalgia. Much of the public conversation focused on surface questions — visual spectacle, casting choices, comparisons to the original, and whether the film justified its own existence at all. Yet beneath those debates, Aladdin quietly preserves something more interesting: a surprisingly complete inner journey.

    At a glance, the story appears simple — a street thief finds a magic lamp, disguises himself as a prince, defeats a villain, and wins the princess. But simplicity of plot does not imply simplicity of structure. When examined more closely, Aladdin reveals a layered progression of inner states: desire, illusion, control, collapse, humility, and finally release. The film does not always linger long enough on these transitions, but it consistently gestures toward them.

    In the following analysis, we will explore Aladdin through a reinterpreted Major Arcana framework. Here, the archetypes are not treated as occult symbols or character labels, but as stages of psychological and spiritual development. This approach allows us to do several things at once: to better understand the Major Arcana itself, to see where the story succeeds or falls short in its inner logic, to extract practical lessons about storytelling craft, and — perhaps most importantly — to observe how these archetypal movements reflect our own lived experience.

    Approached this way, Aladdin emerges as an archetypally rich narrative, accounting for nearly the entire developmental arc. Its greatest strength lies in its closing movement toward Temperance, where power is relinquished rather than claimed. Its primary weakness appears earlier, at the moment where ego transcendence would require deeper determination and emotional resolve. These strengths and gaps are not flaws to be dismissed, but signals that help illuminate how stories grow — and where they sometimes hesitate.

    What follows is a step-by-step traversal of the archetypes as they appear in Aladdin, tracing how will becomes illusion, illusion collapses into truth, and truth ultimately gives way to balance. In doing so, the story becomes not just a tale of magic and romance, but a mirror of the inner negotiations we all face between control and surrender, appearance and authenticity, wishing and choosing.

    Major arcana archetypes in Aladdin

    The Magician — will and manifestation ✅

    From the beginning of the movie, Aladdin is an apparent Magician, shown as a very crafty thief. Although this Magician uses his manifesting skills primarily for selfish agendas, his noble heart is still present beneath the surface.

    He is even explicitly confirmed as the Magician by Jasmine herself, who remarks: “You’re quite the magician.” The story openly names his archetypal function early on.

    Justice — balancing positive and negative, free will ✅

    By balancing what is morally good with its opposite within the mind, Justice represents free will. It is also activated by perceived inequality within the system.

    Aladdin demonstrates a will of his own, but initially uses it in service of self-justification — shaping reality not toward truth, but toward what feels fair to him within an unfair world.

    The Devil — opposition to the Magician ✅

    Aladdin is consistently opposed by those he steals from, who from his point of view function as the Devil — forces that challenge his will, safety, and well-being. His survival feels defined by external constraints rather than internal choice.

    This opposition intensifies when he is confronted by the royal guards while trying to reach Jasmine, representing a larger social system that stands firmly in his way.

    The Hermit — isolation and loneliness ✅

    Aladdin lives alone on abandoned rooftops, physically separated from society. Having lost his parents at a young age, he has been on his own ever since.

    Jasmine later confirms that she, too, experiences an inner sense of isolation — trapped within a world she cannot escape. Though their circumstances differ, their inner solitude mirrors each other.

    The High Priestess — object of inspiration ✅

    Jasmine stands as the High Priestess for Aladdin. In her, he recognizes someone of a vastly different social status, yet with a similar worldview and inner longing.

    At the same time, he represents the same archetype for her from the opposite position — someone outside the system she inhabits, yet deeply aligned in spirit.

    The Lightning — inspiration / Cupid’s arrow ✅

    A woman’s beauty is capable of striking a man’s heart like a bolt of lightning. Although we do not see Aladdin collapse at their first meeting — which would symbolize full destabilization or reality-shattering — the emotional impact is nonetheless immediate. The love he feels for Jasmine is unmistakable and sets inner forces in motion.

    The Star — hope, faith, and wayshower ✅

    The love Aladdin sees in Jasmine becomes the Star that guides his path. It gives him hope, direction, and a reason to endure hardship, transforming his struggles into something meaningful rather than merely survivable.

    The Empress — sense of entitlement, premature self-worth ✅

    After visiting Jasmine in her palace, Aladdin begins to display a subtle bravado and sense of entitlement. When he leaves, he even expresses arrogance about his parkour skills, momentarily inflating his sense of self.

    This marks the emergence of premature self-worth — confidence that has not yet been grounded in truth.

    The Wheel of Fortune — ups and downs ✅

    Aladdin’s arrogance soon draws him into trouble with the royal guards, with the shady Vizier Jafar orchestrating events from behind the scenes. Jafar captures Aladdin and uses him for his own dark agenda — retrieving the lamp — an outcome that initially appears to turn in Aladdin’s favor.

    More importantly, the Wheel of Fortune represents Aladdin’s internal fluctuations. Later, while pretending to be a prince at court, he repeatedly embarrasses himself, revealing the instability of an identity built on illusion.

    The Emperor — control ✅

    When Aladdin is introduced to the Genie and the possibilities of unlimited power, he responds in the way an immature person would — adopting the Emperor archetype in its unintegrated form. He attempts to bend reality to his will rather than align with it.

    Strength — lies, manipulation, forcing the issue ✅

    Before Strength is properly integrated, the Emperor misuses it to get his way.

    Aladdin decides to pretend to be a prince in order to win Jasmine’s hand, forcefully manipulating reality through deception. He falsely believes he can bribe his way into marriage with the princess.

    Even after Jasmine discovers the truth, he continues the lie — insisting that he was a prince all along.

    The Moon — twilight and illusion ✅

    Manipulation leads only to illusion. Aladdin creates the false persona of Prince Ali, keeping both his identity and motives hidden.

    Likewise, Jafar’s true nature remains concealed for most of the story, operating within shadow and ambiguity.

    The Hierophant — truth revealed, forced introspection ✅

    Jafar is the first to uncover the truth about Aladdin. Later, when the lamp is in his possession, he publicly exposes Aladdin, forcing a collective re-evaluation of identity and legitimacy.

    This truth is revealed without compassion, which distinguishes the Hierophant from the Sun. Aladdin, in turn, exposes Jafar by revealing his ambition for the throne.

    The Hanged Man — suspended action, perspective shift ✅

    Aladdin’s illusions begin to collapse once Jafar discovers his true identity.

    His action is symbolically suspended when Jafar ties him to a chair and pushes him into the sea to test whether the Genie will save him. When the rescue occurs, Jafar is convinced — but Aladdin has been rendered powerless and observed from above.

    Death — killing of the ego ✅

    Aladdin first encounters death physically when tied to the chair and thrown from the balcony. However, this is only a symbolic brush with physical death.

    True ego death arrives through apology. His first apology is tentative and incomplete, after which Jafar banishes him to the winter land. His final apology, however, is sincere and unguarded.

    The Two Paths (Lovers) — determination ❓

    True determination toward truth is what ultimately kills the ego. In Aladdin’s case, this archetype is underdeveloped.

    His initial apology is quick and half-hearted, and his determination to defeat Jafar lacks emotional depth, relying more on logic than inner conviction. The story moves forward, but this inner choice is compressed rather than fully explored.

    Resurrection — rebirth ✅

    Aladdin’s return from the frozen wasteland with the help of the magic carpet functions as a symbolic resurrection. Having apologized and released his false identity, he returns transformed — humble, unrestrained, and truthful.

    The Chariot — uninhibited clarity and swift action ✅

    After his return, Aladdin acts decisively. He swiftly saves Jasmine with the magic carpet and later outmaneuvers Jafar, who has by then become a powerful sorcerer.

    Action is no longer driven by fear or deception, but by clarity.

    The Sun — heart-to-heart sincerity ✅

    The Sun typically shines when a protagonist openly admits the truth and unburdens the heart — often before major escalation.

    In Aladdin’s case, this moment is delayed. He is transported to the winter land before sincerity can fully emerge. As a result, his true moment of openness comes after the climax, when he sincerely asks for forgiveness for his lies.

    The World — reconnection with others and the divine ✅

    Aladdin’s movement toward the World begins when the magic carpet rescues him from the winter land.

    Ultimately, reconnection is completed through the confirmation of his truthful identity and integrated self, symbolized by his union with Jasmine and their marriage.

    Temperance — ordinary life, but happier ✅

    In one of the most symbolic representations of the Temperance archetype in modern storytelling, Aladdin uses his final wish to set the Genie free and allow him to live as an ordinary person.

    Power is relinquished, balance is chosen, and the need to wish is ended.

    And they live happily ever after.

    Closing Reflection

    Viewed through this archetypal lens, Aladdin reveals itself as an almost complete developmental arc. Nearly all major archetypal movements are present and meaningfully expressed. What the story lacks is not structure, but depth at a crucial threshold — specifically at the moment where ego should fully dissolve into determination for truth.

    The defeat of Jafar, while clever, remains largely intellectual. It functions as a logical trap rather than a moment of inner resolve. The victory would carry far greater weight if it required Aladdin to demonstrate unmistakable determination — not just intelligence — in choosing truth over self-preservation. As it stands, the confrontation resolves the plot, but only partially resolves the inner journey.

    This same immaturity appears earlier in Aladdin’s relationship to power and transcendence. His desire to impress Jasmine through the magic carpet ride feels premature, almost adolescent. Symbolically, magical flight is best reserved for moments of genuine integration — when a character has achieved inner coherence. The story would gain potency if Aladdin initially struggled to control the carpet while living in illusion, only mastering it at the end, once his identity had become truthful and whole.

    Even with these shortcomings, Aladdin remains a story worth watching — if for nothing else, for its exceptionally clear expression of the final Temperance archetype. The relinquishing of power, the freeing of the Genie, and the ending of the need to wish stand as a rare and honest conclusion in modern storytelling. Balance is chosen over domination, and freedom over control.

    In that final act, the story quietly delivers its deepest truth:
    fulfillment does not come from getting what we want, but from releasing the need to command reality at all.

    Thank you!

    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

  • Collateral Beauty (2016): Needed Some Polishing, Reordering — and a New Title!

    Collateral Beauty had all the ingredients for something soulful and piercing. A grieving father, letters to Love, Time, and Death, and a city coated in winter melancholy. And yet, it squandered its emotional capital by twisting its own premise into something manipulative, inconsistent, and unearned. It turned pain into a riddle, healing into deception, and characters into ciphers. But it didn’t have to.

    We imagined a version of the story where the beauty wasn’t collateral — it was intentional. And real.

    The Alternative Outline

    Everything begins the same. Howard (Will Smith) is crushed by the loss of his daughter. Withdrawn and silent, he spends his days alone, writing three letters to the universe: one to Love, one to Time, and one to Death. His friends, desperate to both help him and save their company, hire a trio of actors to impersonate those concepts. The goal? Confront him with his grief. Jolt him back to life. And, if necessary, use the interactions to convince the board that Howard is no longer fit to vote.

    But this time, they go right throught with the plan. They don’t admit anything, nor do they apologise. The board sees the doctored footage. He’s removed. The friends feel justified. At least in the beginning. Because sooner or later, the reckoning will begin.

    In the days after the meeting, it would be better time for each of Howard’s friends to begin encountering the actors again. They seem to appear randomly. And when they spoke, they might reveal things they couldn’t possibly know. Love tells Whit exactly what he’s avoiding with his daughter. Time lectures Claire about the years she’s wasting. Death corners Simon and stares through him, knowing too much about his illness.

    The friends begin to spiral. They whisper to each other in paranoia. Did we really hire these people? Did we give them those lines? Are we losing our minds?

    Meanwhile, Howard is growing close to a woman he’s met in a grief group: Madeline. In reality, that’s his ex wife, but the original script portrayes them as total strangers. In the reimagined version, we would portray them exactly as they are. Two people who just don’t want to talk about their past. So the audience would slowly begin begin to sense something deeper simmering beneath their measured conversations.

    When the guilt finally overwhelms the conspirators, they approach Howard. They tell him the truth. That they deceived him. That they watched him unravel on camera. That they believe the actors may not have been actors at all — and that the whole thing might’ve been divine.

    One of them even says, “We know how you feel now.”

    Howard doesn’t explode. He just says:

    “I wasn’t losing my mind. I knew they were actors. I saw Love with Whit. I figured it out. I just didn’t care. I needed the time.”

    His friends fall silent. Everything they thought they orchestrated had actually unfolded around them. They weren’t pulling the strings — they were being unraveled by them.

    The actors, they don’t vanish mysteriously — they’re exactly who they appear to be: performers hired to play Love, Time, and Death. But after learning about the conspiracy, they decided to go off-script and teach Howard’s friends a lesson of their own. There’s no divine ambiguity here. They weren’t angels — they were people. People who saw how far things had fallen and used their roles to provoke real change.

    But then comes the real twist. Howard opens up about Madeline, who’d be standing right next to him. About their daughter. About how the grief tore them apart. About how they agreed never to speak of her, because it was the only way they could be in the same room again.

    “She’s not a stranger,” he says. “She’s her mother.”

    That’s when the audience realizes the depth of what they’ve seen — the love disguised as patience, the sorrow hidden behind polite conversation. There was no memory gap. No amnesia. Just unbearable pain, and two people finding their way back to one another by pretending not to know what they could never forget.

    In this version, we changed the title — Collateral Beauty always felt a bit oxymoronic, a poetic phrase that masked an emotionally clumsy structure. Instead, we call it The Three Letters: a story not about tricks, but truths.

    The movie already had everything it needed — great actors, a powerful theme, a touching premise. It just needed some polishing, some emotional honesty, and a careful reordering of events to let its heart shine through.

    Thanks,

    Ira

  • I Am Legend (2007): Reimagining The Story Based on The Power Of the Words And Emotions

    When I Am Legend premiered in 2007, it promised a bold and haunting story: a man alone in a post-apocalyptic world, surviving among the ruins of civilization, haunted by monsters both literal and metaphorical. The setup was compelling. Will Smith delivered a strong, emotionally grounded performance. And the eerie silence of an abandoned New York City gave the film a uniquely haunting texture.

    But what followed was a story at war with itself.

    Instead of diving into its psychological or existential potential, the film retreated into clichés — culminating in one of the most absurd deus ex machina moments in modern sci-fi. As Robert Neville spirals toward despair, he is suddenly saved by a glowing, linen-draped woman and her mute child who appear out of nowhere and just happen to know about a magical survivor colony up north. It feels less like a dramatic turning point and more like a Disney+ crossover. Even the alternate ending — which attempts to reframe the infected as sentient beings and Neville as a monster in their mythos — feels pasted on, disconnected from the story that came before it.

    The problem wasn’t the ending. The problem was that the film never earned one.

    But what if it had?

    What if we rebuilt the arc from the ground up — not just with action and plot twists, but with emotional truth? What if the story of I Am Legend was really about how panic, fear, and belief shape the world we live in — and how one man, broken by loss, learns to see through it? In other words, lets base the story on major arcana archetypes, as much as possible.

    An Alternative Outline

    Imagine this version: In flashbacks, we see that Neville wasn’t calm when the outbreak began. He was panicked. Furious. Desperate to control the chaos around him (the Emperor archetype). His wife, gentle and composed, tries to reassure him: “Everything will be fine.” But he snaps: “Everything will NOT be fine!” The words come out with the full force of his fear, and they carry weight — not just emotionally, but thematically. That line becomes the invisible thread tying his past to his present.

    In the shattered silence of the future, Neville is a man living in the echo of that moment. His world is barren, hostile, and terrifying — not just because of the virus, but because his perception of the world has made it so. He clings to control through rigid routines, cold logic, and failed experiments (the Strength archetype). He is haunted not just by what he’s lost, but by his inability to surrender. It’s his downfall (the Wheel archetype).

    The tipping point comes when his dog — his final emotional anchor — dies. And Neville breaks (the Hanged man archetype). Not in a dramatic, explosive way, but in quiet devastation. He cries. He collapses. He mutters to no one, in exhaustion and grief, “Everything will be fine.” And in that moment — for the first time since the world ended — he means it (the Hierophant archetype).

    That line, once spoken in panic, now returns as surrender. Not denial. Not delusion. Just… trust. Faith (the Star archetype). The memory of someone who loved him even as he unraveled. In spirit, he apologises to his wife for panicking (the Death archetype).

    And something shifts.

    With his mind finally clear, Neville returns to his notes (the Resurrection arcetype). He sees what he was missing. The equations don’t change — he does. Where once he tried to force the virus into submission, he now sees a path to healing. Not a miracle. Not a grand salvation. Just a quiet, earned breakthrough. His mind is finally capable of moving through ideas to conclusions (the Chariot archetype).

    That’s where the divine intervention belongs — not in a glowing stranger arriving with plot coupons, but in the moment a man lets go of fear. When panic dissolves, clarity enters. Grace and optimism for the world (the World archetype) follows.

    This reimagined arc gives I Am Legend the emotional scaffolding it always needed. It aligns the internal journey with the external one. It makes the title resonate — not because Neville becomes a mythic slayer of monsters, but because on some level he learns that the world mirrors the words we speak. And only when he changes his truth does the world begin to heal.

    This isn’t just a better ending — it’s a better story. One that dares to believe that survival isn’t about dominance or sacrifice, but about surrender, humility, and transformation. Which is what major arcana teaches us all.

    The real legend isn’t the man who defeats the darkness —but the one who finally sees the light.

    Thank you,

    Ira