Legacy Sequels: Self-Reflexive Cinema

One of the most daunting tasks for any filmmaker is the challenge of making a worthy sequel to a great movie. Getting to make any film whatsoever already requires a Herculean effort from everyone involved, but the sheer concept of making a film that aims to equal (or that even dares to surpass) a revered classic is quite a tall order. It’s the kind of storytelling endeavor that immediately comes with its own set of expectations and pressures, as passionate fans of an original film eagerly anticipate a new installment that must surely offer all the elements that resonated so deeply with them in the first place. So perhaps it is not too shocking that sequels to popular films often come out after long gestating periods. Fans of the sci-fi cult classic Tron (1982) had to wait 28 years for its sequel, the aptly named Tron: Legacy (2010). After audiences around the world were left astonished by the timeless classic The Wizard of Oz (1939), it took 46 years for its comparatively much more traumatizing sequel, Return to Oz (1985). And if you were an impressionable child who was lucky enough to watch the wondrous cinematic experimentation of Disney’s Fantasia (1940) when it first came out, chances are that you eventually got to take your grandchildren to see its continuation, Fantasia 2000 (2000), after a measly waiting time of 60 years, at the turn of the 21st Century.

This lengthy passage of time is perhaps the defining feature of what is often referred to as a legacy sequel, a long-awaited continuation of a beloved film that finally brings back all its iconic characters to embark on a brand new journey… except this journey at hand, which is supposed to feel “brand new” indeed, often ends up becoming suspiciously similar to the first one. What I’m interested in, however, is not mere cases of sequelitis, in which the plot of a film is then identically copied and pasted onto a sequel out of pure laziness and lack of imagination. 

What I want to discuss today is the legacy sequels that are thematically all about looking back at their predecessors in metatextual ways, skillfully using callbacks, homages, and parallels in order to grapple with the lasting effects that the original films had on both the filmmakers and the devoted fanbases.

It could be argued that the platonic ideal of a legacy sequel is the masterfully made, crowd-pleasing blockbuster Top Gun: Maverick (2022), the follow-up to the 1986 action classic that officially cemented Tom Cruise as a movie star. On the surface, the conceit of this sequel is pretty straightforward, as we catch up with Pete “Maverick” Mitchell (Cruise), we see him becoming an aviation instructor for the next generation of Navy pilots, and he is confronted by key figures from his past as well as the toughest mission of his life in the coming future. This film is a prime example of an archetypal story that should technically feel entirely formulaic and forgettable on paper, but it is executed so thoughtfully, so earnestly, and with such infectious enthusiasm, that the audience cannot help but be enraptured by this familiar ride. Part of its effectiveness is that the film manages to flawlessly emulate the golden hour aesthetic of the original, as Maverick’s director Joseph Kosinski primarily wanted the film to be a tribute to the legendary action filmmaker Tony Scott, who brought his stylish compositions and heightened tone to the first Top Gun. I would also say that the performances and the character work in Maverick far surpass any of the emotional beats from the first film. There is a tangible sense of real danger and urgency to every action scene, along with a genuine mournfulness to the moments of loss. We get invested in the lives of these characters, and we fear for their survival as the climax grows nearer.

But what really makes Top Gun: Maverick such an all-timer sequel for me is that subtextually, it offers Cruise the opportunity to reflect on his antiquated role in the film industry, to acknowledge his aging and his mortality, ultimately serving as a battle cry for a brighter future of the cinematic medium itself. The character of Maverick is such a perfect fit for Cruise, not just because of his charisma, but because he’s an old-fashioned archetype who is constantly reminded that he is obsolete, that his time will run out, that he cannot pretend to live forever and keep on performing dangerous stunts without consequence. That level of self-awareness and vulnerability that Cruise showcases is what really gives the movie a lot of its resonant power. And then there’s the simple yet thrilling notion of human beings piloting archaic aircraft (with the added practical realism of the actors actually flying in these fighter planes for real) as opposed to artificial drones operating without pilots, which feels like a perfect metaphor for the filmmakers trying to make a hand-crafted blockbuster meant to be seen on the big screen, just as theaters were on the verge of bankruptcy due to COVID and just as the threat of A.I. truly began to affect artists of all kinds. Early on in the film, Admiral Cain (played by Ed Harris) says to our main character, “The end is inevitable, Maverick. Your kind is headed for extinction.” Maverick takes a brief moment to process this portentous warning, and then he simply responds with, “Maybe so, sir… But not today.”

An entirely different yet still incredibly affecting legacy sequel is Danny Boyle’s T2 Trainspotting (2017). The first Trainspotting (1996) remains one of the most exhilarating and overwhelming films of its decade, as it was a brutally honest yet empathetic portrayal of heroin-addicted young adults in Scotland. But given the self-contained nature of the first film, it admittedly felt like a strange proposition to imagine any kind of sequel. After all, what else was there left to say? What lessons had the characters not learned already? What would make a sequel to such harrowing material worth making?

The rather brilliant answer to those questions was taking the youthful addiction to heroin from the first film and shifting it now to the weary addiction to nostalgia in the second film. All the characters in T2 Trainspotting are desperately trying to relive their glory days, whether it be Renton (played by Ewan McGregor) wanting to feel some excitement after years of dormant normalcy, Williamson (played by Jonny Lee Miller) wanting to run blackmailing schemes just to feel more mischievous, or Begbie (played by Robert Carlyle) wanting revenge after being betrayed and abandoned in the previous film. Scenes that would ordinarily function as pure fan service (in which iconic shots are recreated or memorable quotes are referenced) instead capture the wistfully melancholic feeling of visiting old stomping grounds, where cherished memories clash and merge with the regrets that one longs to forget. It is a meditative sequel that is keenly aware of the indulgent comforts of nostalgia, the price of holding on too tightly to the past, and the necessity of moving forward. The fact that the film manages to implement this wiser, more mature perspective while still maintaining the exuberant visual kineticism of the first film is quite an achievement to behold.

Lastly, I believe that perhaps the single most self-reflexive and deeply cathartic legacy sequel ever made is Lana Wachowski’s The Matrix Resurrections (2021). The original Matrix Trilogy (1999-2003) was the complex sci-fi saga that gave Lana and her sister Lilly the reputation of being inimitable artists, as together they made incredibly personal films on a mind-bogglingly massive scale. Those first three Matrix films told an operatic story about questioning the nature of your reality, embracing your suppressed identity, and most importantly, fighting for the one you love. As each film kept getting increasingly dense with world-building and labyrinthian plotting, audiences ultimately felt worn out by the end of the third film, which seemingly concluded the series quite definitively in terms of which characters were left alive. And yet with all this in mind, the executives of Warner Bros still took it upon themselves to ask the Wachowski sisters every year if they had a new idea for a Matrix film, as it was simply unthinkable to let one of their most profitable franchises come to a natural end. For a long while, it seemed like this was a pointless effort from Warner Bros, as the Wachowskis felt satisfied with their trilogy and had since moved on to other projects that kept pushing the boundaries of what was possible with large-scale filmmaking.

That is until Lana Wachowski sadly experienced a couple of losses. Her parents and a close friend passed away at around the same time in her life, and in the midst of her grieving period, she found herself reminiscing about her characters from the Matrix films. She realized that she missed spending time with them, that she still had something to say, and that nothing would make her happier than to bring her old creations back to life. Since Lilly preferred to work on other projects, Lana finally decided to make her first solo feature, and the resulting film is an unbelievably big swing from the heart.

The Matrix Resurrections recontextualizes the entire franchise in a very disorienting manner, presenting the messianic protagonist Neo (played by Keanu Reeves) as a video game developer responsible for making a famous series of games known as… The Matrix Trilogy. We follow Neo as he struggles to differentiate his memories from the supposedly fictional narratives that he’s created, and soon enough, it becomes clear that he’s been imprisoned in yet another digital simulation, unable to be with his one true love, Trinity (played by Carrie-Anne Moss). To describe this film as merely meta would be about as reductive as referring to the Burj Khalifa as kinda tall. With this film alone, Lana explores the countless discussions that she’s had with execs over the years about what made the first film so successful, as well as what made the sequels so much more inaccessible by comparison, all while further embracing her transgender identity by admitting that the binary aspects of the original trilogy (red pill or blue pill, man or machine, free will or predeterminism) were in retrospect fairly limited understandings of a much more nuanced reality, where all of these supposedly opposing sides could actually co-exist in the middle ground. Whether you enjoy The Matrix Resurrections or not, it is frankly impossible to deny the overflowing amount of ideas and personal meaning that it contains, and I have found the film to be increasingly rewarding and astonishing every time I’ve come back to it.

Some other self-reflexive legacy sequels that I greatly admire are Denis Villeneuve’s Blade Runner 2049 (2017), Mike Flanagan’s Doctor Sleep: Director’s Cut (2019), J.J. Abrams’ Star Wars: The Force Awakens (2015), and yet another Danny Boyle film, 28 Years Later (2025). 

To me, the most admirable quality of a good sequel is that it provides a legitimate reason to exist beyond financial gain or brand recognition. And when a legacy sequel is willing to interrogate the concepts of its predecessor for the sake of thematic exploration, that’s where real gold can be struck.