Welcome back to The Captain's Corner, the only place on the internet where we can sit back, ignore the Hollywood PR spin, and have an honest conversation about the state of our favorite movies and TV shows. Today, we need to talk about the most terrifying word in the entertainment industry: The Prequel.
Let's be completely honest with each other. Whenever a major studio announces that their next highly anticipated blockbuster or streaming series is going to be a prequel, what is your immediate, gut reaction? If you are like most fans, you probably let out a heavy sigh, roll your eyes, and brace yourself for disappointment.
We have been burned so many times by prequels that feel like cheap, lazy cash grabs. We have watched studios drag iconic characters out of retirement just to show us boring backstories we never asked for. We have seen the magic of mysterious villains completely ruined by over-explaining their childhood trauma.
But here is my slightly controversial take: Prequels are not inherently bad. In fact, when they are done right, they can actually be the best format in modern storytelling.
Look at the last decade of pop culture. Better Call Saul is widely considered to be just as good, if not better, than Breaking Bad. Andor completely revitalized the Star Wars universe. House of the Dragon brought audiences flocking back to Westeros after the disastrous finale of Game of Thrones. Furiosa was an absolute masterclass in action cinema.
So, why do some prequels fail so miserably while others become instant classics? It all comes down to a few very specific narrative traps. Let's break down the rules of the prequel, where studios get it so horribly wrong, and the secret formula that makes the great ones work.
Trap #1: The Absolute Absence of Physical Stakes
The single biggest hurdle any prequel has to overcome is the "Zero Stakes" problem.
In a normal movie, the tension comes from not knowing what is going to happen next. Will the hero survive? Will the villain win? In a prequel, that tension is completely erased. We already have the answer key. If you are watching a prequel about a young James Bond, you know with absolute, 100% certainty that he is not going to die in the second act. The physical danger is an illusion.
This is exactly why the Obi-Wan Kenobi series on Disney+ felt so incredibly hollow for so many viewers. The show constantly put Obi-Wan, a young Princess Leia, and Darth Vader in "life-or-death" situations. But as an audience, we know exactly where those three characters are going to be ten years later in A New Hope. When a Stormtrooper shoots at Leia, we don't hold our breath. We know she survives. The writers tried to build a show around physical survival when the audience already knew the survival rate was 100%.
How to fix it: Shift the stakes from the body to the soul.
This is where Better Call Saul completely rewrote the playbook. When the show started, we knew Jimmy McGill was going to survive and eventually become the sleazy criminal lawyer Saul Goodman. We knew Mike Ehrmantraut and Gus Fring were going to survive to run a meth empire.
So, creator Vince Gilligan did something brilliant: he introduced Kim Wexler. Kim is not in Breaking Bad. Suddenly, the audience has a massive, terrifying blind spot. We don't know what happens to her. Does she die? Does she go to prison? Does Jimmy ruin her life?
The tension in Better Call Saul wasn't about whether Jimmy would get shot; it was about watching his soul slowly decay. It was the tragic anxiety of watching a good man turn into a bad one, and holding our breath to see if he would drag the woman he loved down with him. By shifting the stakes from physical survival to moral corruption, the show became one of the most stressful, gripping dramas on television.
Trap #2: The "Origin of the Prop" Syndrome
There is a terrible disease running rampant in Hollywood writers' rooms, and I call it the "Origin of the Prop" syndrome. It happens when writers mistakenly believe that the audience wants an exhaustive, deeply literal explanation for every single recognizable item, catchphrase, or article of clothing a character possesses.
The most glaring example of this in modern cinema is Solo: A Star Wars Story.
Han Solo is arguably the coolest character in movie history. He is a mysterious, cynical smuggler. But the writers of Solo treated his character like a Wikipedia checklist that needed to be filled out. In a single, two-hour movie, we are shown exactly how he met Chewbacca, exactly how he got the Millennium Falcon, exactly how he did the Kessel Run, exactly why he shoots first, exactly where he got his iconic blaster, and exactly how he got the gold dice that hang in the cockpit.
They even included a scene to explain his last name! An Imperial officer asks who his people are, Han says he is alone, and the officer literally writes down "Solo."
It is exhausting. It shrinks the universe instead of expanding it. When you over-explain every single detail of a character's life, you strip away all of the mystery that made them cool in the first place. You don't need to show us how Indiana Jones bought his first leather jacket, and you don't need to show us how Wolverine bought his first cigar.
How to fix it: Protect the mystery.
Look at the John Wick franchise. Throughout the first movie, we hear terrified Russian mobsters whisper about "The Impossible Task"—the legendary night of violence John committed to earn his retirement. The studio could easily make a prequel movie showing us exactly what happened that night.
But they shouldn't. Because whatever we imagine in our heads is always going to be cooler, bloodier, and more mythical than what a director can put on screen. Great prequels know which questions to answer, and which questions to leave alone. They expand the lore of the world without feeling the need to explain where the main character bought their shoes.
The Secret Weapon: The Genre Shift
If you want to know how to make a prequel feel incredibly fresh and vital, you have to look at Tony Gilroy's Andor.
On paper, Andor sounds like a terrible idea. It is a prequel to Rogue One, which is already a prequel to A New Hope. We know how Cassian Andor's story ends—he gets vaporized on a beach by the Death Star. So how did this show become the most critically acclaimed Star Wars project in decades?
It succeeded because it completely abandoned the genre of the original films.
Star Wars is a space opera. It is about space wizards with laser swords fighting evil emperors. Andor took that exact same universe and shifted the genre entirely into a gritty, grounded, Cold War espionage thriller. There are no Jedi. There are no lightsabers. There is no Force.
By changing the genre, the prequel changes the rules. Suddenly, the Empire isn't just a faceless army of Stormtroopers; they are a terrifying, bureaucratic fascist regime. The Rebellion isn't a group of noble heroes; they are desperate, morally compromised insurgents who have to do terrible things to survive.
When you shift the genre, the audience can't rely on the tropes of the original movie to guess what happens next. You are playing in the same sandbox, but you brought entirely different toys.
The Power of Dramatic Irony and Inevitable Tragedy
There is a specific literary tool that makes the prequel format so uniquely powerful, and it dates all the way back to ancient Greek theater: Dramatic Irony.
Dramatic irony happens when the audience knows something the characters on screen do not. In a prequel, dramatic irony is baked into the very foundation of the story. We are sitting on the couch, watching characters make plans for a future that we know is never going to happen.
This is why the best prequels are almost always tragedies. There is a profound, sickening dread in watching a train speed toward a broken bridge, especially when you are the only one who can see the gap in the tracks.
Let's look at Revenge of the Sith. Regardless of how you feel about the dialogue in the prequel trilogy, the overarching narrative of Episode III is incredibly potent. We watch Anakin Skywalker, terrified of losing his wife, make a series of terrible compromises that directly cause the very death he is trying to prevent. Every time Obi-Wan tells Anakin he trusts him, the audience winces. We know the betrayal is coming. The characters are blissfully unaware, and that gap in knowledge creates massive emotional weight.
Rogue One uses this exact same tragic engine. From the moment the movie starts, we know the rebels are going to steal the Death Star plans. But as we spend two hours falling in love with Jyn Erso, Cassian Andor, and K-2SO, a terrible realization slowly washes over the audience: none of these characters are in Episode IV. They aren't going to make it out alive.
The movie turns into a suicide mission. The triumph of transmitting the plans is immediately undercut by the devastating sacrifice required to do it. The prequel format allows the filmmakers to hit us with an emotional gut-punch that a standard sequel simply cannot deliver, because the tragedy is inevitable.
The Ultimate Goal: Enriching the Original
So, what is the ultimate test of a prequel? How do we definitively separate the lazy cash grabs from the masterpieces?
A bad prequel relies on the original to survive. A great prequel makes the original better.
If you watch a prequel and the only joy you get out of it is pointing at the screen and saying, "Hey, I recognize that guy!", then the movie has failed. It is just relying on cheap nostalgia to keep you awake.
But think about what happens when you watch Breaking Bad after finishing Better Call Saul. Your entire perspective on the show changes. When Saul Goodman walks into Walter White's meth lab, he isn't just a quirky, fast-talking comic relief character anymore. You know the immense tragedy of Jimmy McGill. You know the heartbreak of Kim Wexler. You know the deep, terrifying history he has with the cartel. The prequel adds massive, hidden layers of depth to a show that aired a decade earlier.
The exact same thing happens with Rogue One. If you watch A New Hope today, the opening crawl hits completely differently. When Darth Vader boards the Rebel ship looking for the stolen plans, you no longer just assume it was a simple heist. You literally picture the bodies of the Rogue One crew scattered on the beaches of Scarif. You picture the hallway massacre. The original movie is objectively better and more emotionally resonant because the prequel exists.
The Final Verdict: Let the Creators Cook
We need to stop groaning every time a prequel is announced. The format is not the enemy; corporate laziness is the enemy.
When a studio treats a prequel like a mandated lore-dump to keep an IP relevant, we get bloated, boring disasters. But when a studio hands a prequel to a brilliant creator and allows them to shift the genre, introduce new stakes, and lean into the inevitable tragedy of the timeline, we get some of the best storytelling of the century.
Prequels require an incredible amount of narrative discipline. You have to write a gripping story with one hand tied behind your back, knowing the audience already holds the answer key. When a writer manages to pull off that magic trick, it is something truly special.
So yes, there are a lot of terrible prequels out there. But I will sit through a dozen X-Men Origins: Wolverine disasters if it means we eventually get another Better Call Saul.
What is your absolute favorite prequel of all time, and which one do you think completely ruined the original movie? Let's argue about it in the comments below!
🛒The Captain's Corner: The Prequel Survival Kit
As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. If you want to study the absolute best (and most heavily debated) prequels in modern history, here are the physical media editions you need to own:
- Better Call Saul: The Complete Series (Blu-ray) - The undisputed king of the prequel format. Watch Jimmy McGill's tragic descent and see how it completely changes your view of Breaking Bad.
- Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (4K Ultra HD) - The gold standard for prequel movies. A beautiful, tragic suicide mission that makes the opening of A New Hope infinitely better.