Wonder Woman 1984, and why character motivation matters

When Wonder Woman (2017) hit theaters, I was one of the masses that was thrilled. Finally, a superhero film that, at its core, keeps itself grounded in the human heart. The superhero stakes were all still present, but it still managed to remember the important pieces that make those stakes actually hold weight—the individual people that are worth saving. Except for the awful CGI tornado in the final 20 minutes that all superhero movies seem to think is a prerequisite of the genre (seriously, can we put an end to this yet?), I loved every minute of it.

Gal Gadot was fabulous playing Wonder Woman as a fish out of water navigating a 1950's London filled with institutions and cultural norms outside of her understanding. Paired against Chris Pine, the two were so unfairly beautiful that I found myself consistently pulled out of the film to marvel at how unearthly gorgeous Gadot was.

Finally, having Patty Jenkins direct was a breath of fresh air. The film was refreshingly absent of the male gaze, and Wonder Woman was able to fill the frame as the strong, self-assured woman she was, rather than purely as an object of desire.

It goes without saying, then, that I was excited for the second installment of what I believed to be the saving grace of the dying DC film franchise: Wonder Woman 1984 (2020).

Although the film has done gangbusters in a COVID-era box office, it is decidedly not the critical darling the original was. Wonder Woman raked in an impressive 93% on Rotten Tomatoes, but the sequel slipped out of a certified fresh rating with a disappointing 60%. And, though I hate to admit it, I was far less enchanted with Wonder Woman 1984 than I wanted to be. (And I really wanted to be.)

The film falls short in a number of ways. It's having a lot more fun in the middle chunk, but the fun is made of a flimsy nostalgia riffing off the popularity of other mainstream 80's trips like Stranger Things (2016–Present) rather than playing in character moments like the original did with Diana hearing a baby or eating an ice cream cone for the first time. It makes the humor in the sequel feel even more empty because any semblance of character beats fall secondary to a sea of bright colors and makeover montages.

It also suffers from asking a lot more of Gadot than she can offer. While her limited range aided her well in portraying someone who can't quite figure out the world around her, it acts as a great disservice when it's asking her to carry an emotional weight she can't quite handle. While Pine is more adept and charming at holding up his end of the bargain, it isn't enough to drag the film out of hot water.

And it does get very deeply into hot water.

Perhaps the most egregious and least forgivable of its faults is the staunch refusal to develop any of its characters in any meaningful way. It's less of an issue in Diana and Steve, who we already know well enough to have them prop the movie on their own. The major problem comes with the two villains—Maxwell Lord (Pedro Pascal) and Barbara Minerva (Kristen Wiig).

Character motivation matters. As audience members, we need to know

• what a character wants

• what a character needs

• how their wants and needs conflict with each other

• how their wants and needs conflict with the other characters and the world they inhabit.

These wants, needs, and conflicts need to remain clear and consistent for the audience. I'm not saying that these wants, needs, and conflicts need to remain consistent throughout the course of the entire narrative. There are plenty of brilliant stories that play with the tension when people come into conflict with their own wants and needs and change them as it comes into conflict with themselves or the outside world. In fact, this is where the meatiest character stuff really happens. But these changes need to remain consistent to the evolution of each character. Otherwise, the dissonance makes moments that should have emotional resonance ring hollow.

Let's illustrate looking at Maxwell Lord. This guy is painted as a greedy opportunist that is willing to go to basically any length to save his failing business. This is his want early in the film—he wants to be a powerful, successful businessman. Then, his want evolves into... wanting to give everyone their wishes so he can take something from them in return and become even more powerful? Unclear.

His need is not shown until the last 5 minutes of the film, where he decides what he actually needs is the love and acceptance of his son Alistair (Lucian Perez), despite spending 99% of the movie actively ignoring him and being loudly annoyed about taking care of him any time he shows up.

So, why does this matter? We still get the moment of Max Lord and his son Alistair running towards each other in an open field with arms outstretched for a beautiful reunion portrait, and the threat of a dude who turned himself into a genie dissipates. We got the ending, the full arc of the villain, and good prevailed.

But Max Lord's need was not central to the plot or his characterization in any meaningful way until the end of the film needed it to be. It made the moment where he arbitrarily decides that his son is what truly matters feel out of left field and left me more confused than touched. Again, a moment that was supposed to be emotionally resonant (and the tone of the entire scene suggests this too) ultimately rang hollow.

Me too, kid. Me too.

Frankly, not only was I confused, but I...kind of didn't care. It felt inconsistent with Max Lord's characterization as a greed-driven man willing to go to any lengths to get what he wants and his general contempt and lack of empathy for any person other than himself.

An alternate exploration of the contention between his want and need would have made for a far more powerful arc and compelling ending. Let's say that every time Alistair visited him, Max was torn between taking care of and spending time with his son and saving his failing business. He believed the only way he could be a good father to Alistair was to be a successful and powerful man so he could be a hero his son could look up to. However, once he sees his pursuit of success and power has not made him a hero, but a villain, he runs back to his son to beg him for forgiveness.

This would have made for a much more compelling story—one that clearly outlines his want (to become a powerful and successful businessman) and his need (to be a good father to his son), how they conflict, and his ultimate resolution to let go of his want to claim his need. Perhaps most frustratingly, there are echoes of these plotlines in the film—they're simply not explored.

Instead, we get Max treating his son as an extreme inconvenience, vehemently stopping him from giving his true wish (to be able to spend more time with his dad), and then suddenly deciding that it was his son all along who he needed.

The other missed opportunity comes with Barbara Minerva (Kristen Wiig) who eventually turns into Cheetah. Barbara supposedly sacrifices her humanity to achieve her want (to become an apex predator), but neither the sacrifice nor the want are clearly delineated enough for the audience to understand or appreciate where either of these come from. It makes the entire characterization of Cheetah lack any oomph.

The characterization didn't start poorly. Barbara begins as a bumbling but intelligent gemstone specialist at the Smithsonian. She is entirely unremarkable—going through her day with some combination of ignored and scorned by the people around her.

However, when she meets Diana, it's clear that she idolizes Diana for being everything she is not. Diana is beautiful. She captures the attention of everyone in the room with her, is supremely confident, and seems entirely self-sufficient and in need of nobody other than herself. Her initial want is to become more like this woman who she sees as perfect. But her need is never truly explored.

Then, Barbara's character completely falls to pieces.

When Diana makes her plea that Barbara has sacrificed her humanity to gain her powers, there is no appreciation for what she's lost. As far as we know, all she's lost is a life she wanted nothing to do with. To make the stretch that her humanity is her most prized possession doesn't work with how her character was built. There is no indication that Barbara prized her humanity. In fact, she seems all too eager to be rid of it—a thing she saw as her ultimate weakness. Because of this, it becomes almost impossible to parse Barbara's wants and needs. Her want becomes, apparently, to become an apex predator, but we have no indication to what motivates this desire.

The result, then, is that we end up with a bunch of half-baked villains that are... you know, fine... if you're not thinking too much while watching the movie. But it is a great disservice to a film that is trying to hit the same stride of character beats that the first did. Perhaps it's the fault of trying to rely more on the villains—the first film was at its worst when dealing with the tangible villain of Ares (David Thewlis), rather than the idea that there was no mysterious, outside force other than human fallibility and cruelty driving the war.

But character motivation matters, because even with fancy CGI effects and all the production value money can buy, the pieces that are actually going to hold a film up are the characters. Every minute, every word, every action needs to have a purpose. And if characters are merely taking up space on the screen to propel a plot forward, you're missing out on depth and emotional resonance.

You're also doing a huge disservice to all the characters around them, because the conflicting wants and needs of characters with those they interact is where all the rich dramatic tension comes from—not the blinding 20 minute CGI battles.

And Wonder Woman deserves better.

All of the heroes do.