As anyone who's ever been thrown out of a multiplex for trying to magically Last Action Hero their way into the screen knows, movies aren't real. They're intricately constructed works of art put together by writers, filmmakers, and let's be honest, probably cocaine. Like in any other job, people making movies sometimes screw up little stuff. But rather than let those screw-ups ruin things, we've found some pretty out-there justifications to help preserve the illusion. For example ...
As we've mentioned before, the Santa Clause franchise is basically a Jenga game of insane narrative choices. And right when we thought we'd tackled every creepy implication of that wacky universe, one fan found perhaps the creepiest. In The Santa Clause 2, we learn that Santa is forced to take a wife, who then also becomes immortal. But in the first movie, when the original Santa dies, Tim Allen shows up to the North Pole and ... there's no grieving widow. Where's the mandatory Mrs. Claus? Either there's an incongruity in the whole Santa mythology, or there's the more grisly possibility that once Santa kicked the bucket, Christmas magic murdered his poor wife. Alternatively ...
The Crazy Theory:
There's one way to explain Mrs. Claus' absence which doesn't involve some kind of yuletide death curse: Santa faked his death. As a fan pointed out, the titular clause states that whoever puts on Santa's suit "fully accepts the duties and responsibilities of Santa Claus in perpetuity until such time that wearer becomes unable to do so by either accident or design."
Adding the word "design" leaves open the possibility that Santa orchestrated his little "accident." That would explain why when Tim Allen spots Santa on the roof, he's standing by the chimney, but isn't carrying his magic sack. He had no intention of delivering presents -- he was purposefully making a ruckus in order to get spotted, fall, stage his own death, and have the sucker who spotted him take his place. Hell, that fall is questionable as hell. He slides off the roof and lands flat on his back in a giant snow pile like a Hollywood stuntman. (Yeah, 'cause it's a movie stunt. We know, shut up.)
Most importantly, this means that Mrs. Claus isn't dead, but rather waiting for Old Saint Dick at the airport with two tickets to South America.
Ewan McGregor's portrayal of Obi-Wan Kenobi was one of the best parts of the Star Wars Prequel Trilogy. Even when hanging out with a four-armed monster in a 1950s greasy spoon, he somehow manages to comport himself with dignity. The prequel version of Obi-Wan is also a spry young man-- like, "able to obtain the high ground" spry. But when we see him again in A New Hope, he's ... old. So goddamn old. Like, ten years too old to be too old for this shit.
How did Obi-Wan go from a dashing young knight to looking like he's about to ask for the senior's discount at Burning Man? It's not like the actors' ages add up, either. Alec Guinness was 63 when A New Hope came out, Ewan McGregor was 34 when Revenge Of The Sith was released, and only 19 years separate the two. Obi-Wan has somehow aged an extra decade. And in real life, Guinness had lived through two world wars and the '60s, so he seems positively ancient. You could chalk this up to George Lucas paying less attention to math than he did to magical germs and Watto's hat collection. Or it could be because ...
The Crazy Theory:
Obi-Wan's youth was drained from him. Anyone who has children is probably familiar with the concept, but in this case, his youth was taken by the Force. The idea is that Obi-Wan didn't merely protect Luke by moving to Tatooine and assuming the job of elderly weirdo, but that he also used his powers to hide Luke's presence from Darth Vader. In the same way that Luke's astral projection drained him of his remaining life in The Last Jedi, Obi-Wan's efforts accelerated his aging process. Plus, despite what John Williams' soaring music would have you believe, those twin suns aren't doing anyone's skin any favors.
As great as they are, the Back To The Future movies aren't without their noticeable goofs. There's everything from George McFly somehow not being suspicious that his son is a dead ringer for that guy whose capacitor his wife wanted to flux, to Marty not noticing that his girlfriend's face, voice, and general demeanor have inexplicably changed between movies. One inconsistency you probably didn't notice involves the guitar Marty rocks out on to the delight (and eventual horror of) the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance.
You were probably too focused on the flawless vocal sync.
The problem is that cherry red Gibson ES-345 didn't exist in 1955. And the production totally knew this and didn't care. Was it simply a matter of artistic license? Or was it because secretly ...
The Crazy Theory:
Marvin Berry and his band were from the future too. The group hired to play the school dance seemed like they were from the 1950s, but then, how do you explain that anachronistic guitar? Easy: They were sent back in time to help Marty. Remember, they're the ones who conveniently show up to save him from Biff's goons.
Consider this possibility: In the original timeline, Marty asphyxiates in the back of a trunk. A guilt-ridden Doc enlists "Marvin Berry and the Starlighters" to go back in time to rescue him, and that's the timeline we see play out. OK, this sounds totally nuts, but it also makes that phone call to Chuck Berry not just a throwaway joke, but an important effort to preserve history.
Think about it. Marty is playing "Johnny B. Goode" to a room full of high-schoolers. What's to stop one of them from stealing it? By calling up the original author, time traveler Marvin ensures that "Johnny B. Goode" gets written by Chuck Berry and not, say, that ginger turd who tells George to "scram." All Marvin has to do is pretend to be some long-lost cousin, which is why Chuck seemingly doesn't know who's calling him.
And speaking of time fuckery ...
Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes Of Grindelwald features a laundry list of callbacks (or call-forwards, since it's a prequel) to the original Harry Potter series. There's the Mirror of Erised, the Philosopher's Stone, Voldemort's pet snake Nagini as a perfectly nice human woman, etc. Most notably, we get to see 1920s Hogwarts, and meet Dumbledore before he went full Gandalf.
For some reason, we also get a brief cameo from Professor McGonagall ... despite the fact that she hadn't been born yet. Should we just be happy that this particular addition to the Potter canon doesn't include public shitting? Or is there a way to make sense of J.K. Rowling's madness?
The Crazy Theory:
It's not impossible for McGonagall be at Hogwarts if she used a Time Turner. It's not that crazy an idea; in a universe wherein pocket-sized time machines can literally be operated by children, maybe everyone should be considered a possible time traveler. The theory posits that McGonagall went back in time to help Dumbledore, who doesn't want to battle his ex, Grindelwald.
Why? According to her Pottermore page, young Minerva fell in love with a Muggle named Dougal McGregor. They eventually split up, but what if it was almost way worse? Grindelwald's plan involves taking over the non-magical world. What if he succeeded and McGonagall's beau was enslaved or killed in her original timeline? If she wants to fix things, her only option would be to pop back into the '20s, gain Dumbledore's trust, and help convince him to duke it out with his creepy perv-stached former lover. That, or it was midichlori- oh wait, wrong terrible prequel series.
Hyping up a movie that wouldn't come out for another seven damn years, the original Thor hinted at Avengers: Infinity War, showing the Infinity Gauntlet among the various knick-knacks in Asgard's vault.
The only problem is that by the time Infinity War finally came out, we learned that the gauntlet was made recently by a giant dwarf with some kind of cosmic star-smelter (that section of the movie was presumably based on song lyrics found in David Bowie's trash). The point is, the gauntlet couldn't have been in Odin's basement if it hadn't been made yet. Thor: Ragnarok tries to clear this up by having Hela dismiss Odin's gauntlet as "fake."
But that really only raises more questions. Unless ...
The Crazy Theory:
Odin was the original Thanos. By this, we don't mean that Sir Anthony Hopkins was once a purple thicc daddy, but rather that he too once had a plan to collect all the Infinity Stones and rule the Universe. We learn in Ragnarok that Odin wasn't always so mild-mannered and British-like. He used to be a power-mad conqueror.
That would suggest that Thanos' gauntlet was based on Odin's. Another theory further speculates that Odin may have given up on his quest because, unlike Thanos, who was willing to kill Gamora, he couldn't bring himself to toss Hela off a cliff to claim the Soul Stone.
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