What Would Homer Do?

*Word Root of sequel
The Latin word sequī, meaning “to follow,” and its form secutus give us the roots sequand sec. Words from the Latin sequī have something to do with following. Something second follows what came first. A sequel is a book or movie that follows another and continues the story. A sequence is the order in which one thing follows another. A consequence is a result that follows from a condition or action.

*Definition of sequel
1 : consequence, result
2 a : subsequent development
b : the next installment (as of a speech or story); especially : a literary, cinematic, or televised work continuing the course of a story begun in a preceding one

*Definition of trilogy
plural trilogies
: a series of three dramas or literary works or sometimes three musical compositions that are closely related and develop a single theme

* Taken from https://www.merriam-webster.com/



Going back as far as The Iliad and its logical continuation, The Odyssey (albeit different main character), the Greek literary genius, Homer, knew a good story could last one more round.

Hollywood, disobeying Homer’s example by way of exploitation, has been pumping out sequels for quite some time now, most notably with yearly entries of the original Bond series in the early 60s.

Sequels work (sometimes). They sell (mostly). And more importantly, people want to see them, regardless of the lack of originality or weak character development that eventually sets in after the original. Viewers will complain of its upcoming existence, but still, they will sneak into a theatre to watch the latest installment.

So, why does the third entry in a series typically suffer and why is it that other times they surprise with decent additions?

The Ones That Work

Not all threequels suck. In fact, to be fair, there are quite a few that hinder my argument. Nonetheless, what are the elements making them enjoyable?

Similar Structure

Take the most obvious reason: the third story directly copies (or very closely mimics) the original, beat-for-beat, thusly ensuring at least some hope of critical and commercial success. The end goals will be different, as they should, but how the main character must achieve those goals tends to raise suspicion of the authenticity of the writer and studio’s ability to conjure innovative ideas.

Example number one: Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. Sure, it incorporates Jones’ father this time out, but it still cries for comparison with its originator, Raiders of the Lost Ark. The main villains are once again Nazis. But the biggest similarity is the desired object itself: The Holy Grail. The filmmakers kept the supernatural/religious element of Jones searching for the Ark of the Covenant from Raiders and instead replaced it with the Cup of Christ. And it worked.

There is a surefire argument claiming Crusade reigns supreme over the entire series. After the monstrosity that was Temple of Doom (which is actually a prequel), the producers needed to resort back to formula, which they did—and developed a worthy installment that ended the franchise perfectly, as all thirds should.

Depth of Character

The second example is 1995s chapter of the Die Hard series: Die Hard with a Vengeance. Arguably the best sequel in the franchise, even giving the first a run for its money, it gets the story done correctly. How? Well, maybe because the second, Die Harder, was not just a lazy title, but a lame progression of the John McClane character. In fact, Die Harder did not see McClane change at all. He did not learn anything new about himself. Sequels must not only tell a new story, they must reveal to the viewer of a new side to an existing character.

Vengeance, however, learned and decided to take McClane and good Samaritan, Zeus (played perfectly by Sam Jackson), through an epic ride throughout the boroughs of gritty New York. In Vengeance, the wife, Holly, is history. Because of her absence, McClane became a drunkard, making him far different than viewers have seen him in the previous films, thus making him more interesting.

And, likely the most crucial element, is the not-so-subtle weaving of racial prejudice in Vengeance. Zeus clearly has a grudge from before his first meeting with McClane. The tension hits a high mark when they work together to thwart the mad bomber’s puzzles—which supplies the most potent and fun villain in the 90s. A key to a successful sequel is some type, big or small, of a surprising connection to the original. It will recharge interest in the audience, as the first usually is held as the best in any series.

Here, the antagonist is a blood-relative to the baddie of the first, making it seem as if the plot of the story is designed to revolve around revenge for Hans’ death. Vengeance works because it maintains a relevant linking of adversary reprisal, in addition to the same old main character who now has lost everything, but must fight to help others.

Why They Do Not Work

Regardless of the extreme nature of the fantastical involved in the genre, the threat of certain death must present itself as a lurking possibility, especially to the main character. Without this element, storytelling, in general, is worthless.

Dead Men and Resurrection

A prime illustration is the Pirates of the Caribbean series. Currently, the tale of Jack Sparrow is five (5!) films deep—far exceeding any decent arcs of the Sparrow character worth telling. At this point, Sparrow has been reduced to goofy one-liners.

With the brave death of the Sparrow character at the finale of the second film, it left movie-goers surprised at such a result for a beloved character. Surely, a series could not go on without Sparrow, so after some unbelievable maneuvering of a ship, Sparrow’s disciples resurrected the dead captain and the plot finally begun to unfold.

As ecstatic as viewers were to see Sparrow return, they may have missed the glaring inconsistency his comeback meant. Any time a character can return from the dead, it strips threat from a story. Suspension of disbelief, is, of course, needed in all fiction. However, when concrete certainty like death can be cheated, it makes everything afterward pure farce and dull. It implies that, eventually, the main character will always get what they want, because not even the loss of his or her life can stop the achievement of a goal.

Convolution and Lack of Death 

Superman 2 (1980), Spiderman 2 (2004), Scream 2 (1997), and Aliens (1986)—all these films are just as enjoyable, if not better than their predecessors. These successful second entries were made with the realization that making a new impression while keeping loyalty and continuity to the original, was paramount. Aliens amps up the action. Superman 2 brings in a trio of villains with connections to Superman’s history. Scream 2 kills a major character from the first entry. Spiderman 2 has Parker lose his confidence. In the third movies that followed, these elements that worked so well in the second movie were absent.

Alien 3 (a mimicked version of the original, Alien) killed two of the main characters from Aliens off-screen. Superman 3 incorporated an artificial intelligence supercomputer with the help of the Richard Pryor foolishness. Scream 3 tried to weave in an intricate and new backstory to the Sydney Prescott character, resulting in boredom, as those things were never mentioned before about a dead character who never appeared alive in any of the films.

The last, and basic, answer to the drag of a third installment, is all of the promising ideas has sailed off. Writers know this as they attempt to create something that does not put audience members to sleep. As a result, they retcon the past experiences that made the main characters who they are.

In the universe of filmmaking, retcon proves the worst choice for a studio. Spiderman 3, universally panned, revealed that a certain death was not how it originally was presented to Parker (and to the audience, which is the real problem). Threequels, for all intent and purposes, try too hard to please by applying extreme measures and often times, imploding from such choices.

Be Like Quentin

Analyzing these series raises the question: is a trilogy worth it? Does there sincerely need to be three movies to tell a story? A trilogy is asking for lots of different character development and creative plots each time around. One can argue that any uniqueness provided simply does not have the longevity through three movies.

You can tell everything needed in two stories—taking Homer’s lead. Quentin Tarantino, seemingly, feels the same. The only direct continuation he has made in his catalog (the Kill Bill films) lasted, like the aforementioned Greek epics, two films. Tarantino knew that The Bride’s character arc was complete after Vol. 2. To bring her back for another sequel would do her character a disservice and might start her character down an ugly path some viewers might not respect.

Originality in Hollywood storytelling, it appears, is a new fundamental, which is ignored by its producers. If it has the potential to sell, they will probably make it. Endless sequels and prequels and reboots and remakes have taken precedence over telling new, fresh stories, thereby wiping clean authenticity and excitement.

Maybe, in the years to come, when the Hollywood machine dries up, movie-making will resort back to techniques and ideas that allow films the freedom to stop a good story at two movies.