The Hollywood Rehash: When “If It Ain’t Broke” Meets “Are You Out of Your Minds?”
Ah, Hollywood. The land of dreams, red carpets, and, increasingly, the same damn movies. We get it. If something works, you don’t kill the cash cow. That’s just good business, right? But isn’t doing the same thing again and again and expecting different results a sign of madness? Well, technically, Tinseltown isn’t quite mad. They’re not exactly repeating themselves, not in the strictly literal sense. In one dimension, yes, they’re regurgitating familiar narratives. But in another, they’re diligently “extending their universes,” stretching beloved intellectual property thinner than a superhero’s spandex after a heavy night out.
Whatever your stance, you’re going to be affected by this relentless stream of cinematic déjà vu, every summer, every holiday season. Some of us – the perpetually jaded critics – roll our eyes so hard they might just pop out. Others, the vast majority of die-hard fans, are just happy to bask in the safe, comforting glow of a world they already know and love. It’s a familiar blanket in an increasingly bewildering world. But even the most ardent fan has to admit, sometimes the studios just get it wrong. We’ll delve into those colossal flops, the baffling introduction of tiresome “woke” tropes, the casting choices that make you audibly groan, and the truly anaemic storytelling that proves the original narrative simply isn’t enough to carry a new instalment. The new story must be more compelling, more daring, more something. But is it ever? Read on, dear reader, and decide for yourself whether Hollywood is a brilliant business model or a one-trick pony with a very large stable.§
The Narrative Necromancers: A Taxonomy of Cinematic Resurrections
Why are we so utterly obsessed with the episodic? Films used to be standalone affairs, complete narratives that lived and died on their own merits. Now, every successful flick seems to come with a mandatory “universe-building” clause in its contract. Hollywood, ever the clever fox, has a playbook for this narrative continuation, a veritable grimoire of strategies to ensure our beloved characters keep churning out those sweet box office dollars.
First, there’s the straightforward Sequel, the bread and butter of franchising. You liked it once, you’ll probably like it again, right? Star Wars, James Bond, Jurassic Park – these are the titans built on sequential storytelling. Then we have the Prequel, diving into the backstory no one really asked for but somehow feels obligated to watch (Star Wars Episodes I-III, Fantastic Beasts). The Reboot is the cinematic equivalent of hitting Ctrl+Alt+Del – wipe the slate clean, keep the brand recognition, and try again (Batman Begins, Spider-Man: Homecoming). Then there’s the grand ambition: the Shared Universe, where multiple individual franchises intertwine, creating a sprawling, interconnected narrative playground (Marvel Cinematic Universe, DC Extended Universe, Spider Man Multiverse Saga). Finally, the Trilogy, a neat, often aesthetically pleasing, three-act structure that typically works well for narrative arcs (The Lord of the Rings – which could have been one epic film, The Dark Knight). Each strategy is a calculated gamble, designed to tap into existing fanbases and, crucially, to avoid the terrifying prospect of developing a truly original idea.
Gold Mines and Graveyards: Box Office Bonanzas and Belly Flops
Let’s talk numbers, because in Hollywood, cash is king. When a formula works, why on earth would you fix it? Studios certainly agree. The highest-grossing film franchises of all time are dominated by the multi-installment juggernauts. The Marvel Cinematic Universe leads the pack with over $30 billion, followed by the behemoth that is Star Wars (over $10 billion). Other top earners include Spider-Man, Jurassic Park/World, and the Wizarding World. These figures are eye-watering, a testament to the power of established IP and the human desire for comforting familiarity.
But for every Avengers: Endgame that shatters records ($2.79 billion globally), there’s a Speed 2: Cruise Control ($48.6 million on a $160 million budget) that makes you wonder if the executives were on actual cruise control when greenlighting it. Basic Instinct 2 also spectacularly flopped, proving some things are better left in the 90s. The longest-running major franchise with multiple theatrical installments is arguably James Bond (27+ films since 1962, though some might argue for the incredibly prolific Godzilla/King Kong or Universal Monsters with 50+ films each spanning decades). For franchises with the sheer volume of “installments” that aren’t strictly a continuous series, the horror genre often wins: Friday the 13th (12 films), Halloween (13 films), and A Nightmare on Elm Street (9 films) have proven that a simple premise and a relentless villain can keep the blood money flowing for decades, even when quality dips lower than a slasher victim’s body count.
And when does a sequel surprise us by being better than the original? It’s rare, but it happens. Think The Dark Knight, which elevated superhero cinema to a new dramatic height; Terminator 2: Judgment Day, a masterclass in action and effects; or Paddington 2, an almost universally adored film that brought tears to the eyes of even the most cynical critics. These exceptions prove that sometimes, a familiar world can be revisited with fresh eyes and a stronger vision, turning a potential rehash into a genuine triumph.
The Blue Pill of Nostalgia: Why We Keep Coming Back for More
So, given the endless parade of rehashes, the occasional cringe-worthy casting, and the truly baffling plot choices, why aren’t more people complaining? Why do we keep flocking to these cinemas like moths to a flame, knowing full well it might just be the same old song, badly remixed? Perhaps sequels are the perfect panacea, the original blue pill (or orange, depending on your cinematic allegiance) designed to keep us wanting more. As adults, we often crave the comfortable familiarity of our youth. We revisit our favorite films not just for the story, but for the feelings they evoke, the memories they trigger. The “adult’s gaze” on these cinematic touchstones gives them an extra, almost eternal, shelf life.
But the real magic trick? The intergenerational loop. As these same viewers grow up, have their own families, and inflict (lovingly, of course) their childhood favorites upon their offspring, the cycle continues. Star Wars isn’t just for Gen Xers anymore; it’s a shared cultural touchstone for subsequent generations, all thanks to a relentless stream of new content, good or bad. This creates a self-perpetuating echo chamber of fandom, a warm, fuzzy “safe space” where the known quantity triumphs over the scary unknown of originality. It’s a powerful emotional connection that studios exploit with surgical precision.
Cinematic Cuisine: Reheated Leftovers vs. The Same Dish, Masterfully Re-Prepared
If the unending array of sequels were meat, it would be the ultra-processed, recombinated kind – pressed together, flavor-enhanced, and sold on the promise of familiarity rather than genuine quality. In life, and certainly in cuisine, we’d typically pay more for something fresh, innovative, and prepared from scratch. A Michelin-starred chef wouldn’t dare serve you last week’s leftovers, unless they’d been ingeniously re-imagined. They wouldn’t keep the same dishes on the menu. Yet, in cinema, we often line up, credit card in hand, for what feels like yesterday’s forgotten pot roast, simply because it bears a familiar label.
Thankfully, cinema isn’t food (though some of the cinematic disasters certainly leave a bad taste). We have our favorite “dishes,” and like a beloved comfort food, we go back for more. The problem, however, arises when these franchises feel less like the same cherished dish expertly prepared again from scratch, and more like actual, reheated leftovers. There’s a distinct difference between a new iteration that respects and expands upon the original’s essence (think Blade Runner 2049, a belated sequel that somehow worked) and one that merely rehashes plot points or character beats without genuine narrative purpose. We crave the familiar, but we deserve the fresh.
The Saturation Point: When Does a Franchise Truly Die? (Spoiler: It Doesn’t)
This phenomenon of cinematic continuation is, of course, nothing new. Franchises have existed since the dawn of storytelling, from ancient epics passed down through generations to serialised novels that kept readers hooked for years. Gilgamesh, Greek God’s & Myths (Not too dissimilar from our Marvel Pantheon), The Iliad, Sherlock Holmes, Tarzan, James Bond – they all predate the current cinematic obsession. What we’re experiencing now, however, feels like sequel saturation. It’s not just a trend; it’s the dominant mode of blockbuster filmmaking.
It would be fascinating, if a studio dared to release the data, to see the ratio of truly original concept blockbusters versus reboots, prequels, sequels, or other “re-imaginations” of existing IPs. One suspects the scale would be tipped so heavily towards the latter that it would make a seesaw weep. Is there a saturation point? A moment when audiences finally say “enough is enough,” when the appetite for ultra-processed cinematic meat finally wanes? History suggests probably not, or at least, not permanently. When is a sequel officially “dead”? The chilling truth for creatives and the exhilarating truth for studio accountants is: it never truly dies. It can always, always be rebooted. This makes it an almost perfect, risk-averse, money-making device. Why gamble billions on an untested original idea when you can simply exhume a beloved corpse, slap some fresh paint on it, and guarantee a certain level of opening weekend revenue? Another example of this is Squid Games which was only supposed to be one series however Streaming Platforms are learning their lessons well from the major studios and definitely getting in on the “act 2”.
The Fidelity Fallacy: Why Hollywood Needs a Fresh Recipe (But Probably Won’t Get One)
The inherent dilemma of “Repetitive Culture” in Hollywood mirrors a fundamental truth in art and life: the more something is copied, the greater the loss in fidelity from the original. Like a pristine painting reproduced countless times, the “original” film, the initial burst of creativity, is almost always fresher, more impactful, and often, simply better. It’s born from a singular vision, unburdened by established lore or the expectations of a ravenous fanbase. At a certain point, even the most revered franchises begin to follow their own predictable clichés, becoming parodies of their former selves. Hollywood, in its heart of hearts, should take more risks, invest in genuinely original concepts, and foster new voices.
However, with astronomical budgets on the line and studios becoming increasingly risk-averse, the appetite for true originality has waned. The allure of a guaranteed opening weekend based on brand recognition is simply too potent. So, yes, the sequels will continue, and continue, and continue. You get it.
This reliance on established IPs has a ripple effect, not just on the quality of storytelling but on the jobs within the industry. While some new roles emerge, the emphasis on known quantities can stifle opportunities for those championing fresh narratives as well as for new actors. And what happens when the next frontier arrives, when AI avatars are not just programmed to appear in films, but to create them? Will there be an uproar, or will audiences simply consume, indistinguishable from the algorithms that crafted their entertainment?
While many sequels are genuinely entertaining and keep us wanting more, allowing us to revisit cherished worlds, the industry’s approach to diversity and inclusion also needs a critical lens. Instances of “bad casting” or clumsy “pandering” to diversity by shoehorning various ideologies into existing narratives often dilute the impact of the original story and feel inauthentic. Rather than retrofitting diverse protagonists into established, often ill-fitting, frameworks, Hollywood and all custodian’s of filmic and serial narratives should be encouraged to invest in original storylines that organically feature and celebrate these protagonists. True representation thrives in fresh narratives, where characters and their experiences are woven into the fabric of the story from its inception, rather than bolted on as an afterthought. It depends less on the strength of the individual actors and more on the integrity of the storytelling. The actor’s who sign up for these butchered Frankensteinian monstrosities are generally good actors, but they fight an uphill battle and swim against the tide. The irony that people are tolerant of diversity but don’t want to be hit over the head with it at cinema. It should be done in a more nuanced and original way! Ultimately, the question isn’t if sequels will continue, but whether Hollywood will find a way to make them feel like a conscious artistic choice, rather than a frantic exercise in revenue generation. The jury, much like the queue for the next superhero sequel, is still out.
