Loose Cinema: Franchise Continuity At Its Most Flexible

One of the biggest priorities for most film franchises at the moment is the notion of a consistent, logical continuity from one installment to the next. In other words, when fans go to see a franchise film, they want that particular story to have a clear and intuitive placement in the chronology of the series' overarching narrative. Those who saw Avengers: Endgame (2019) had no difficulty understanding that the story took place in the direct aftermath of the tragic events of Avengers: Infinity War (2018). In terms of prequels, it's very well known that the plot of Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), revolving around a group of resistance fighters stealing the schematic plans for the Death Star, leads directly into the story of the original Star Wars (1977). Ironically enough, as TV shows have become increasingly cinematic over time, franchise movies have now become increasingly episodic, with each new installment feeling like a brand-new episode of a beloved show. Of course, no franchise has a perfect continuity, nor has it gotten any easier to maintain a consistent chronology, as franchises nowadays tend to branch out into multiverses and accompanying TV shows on streaming services, complicating their narratives and world-building to the point of making the act of devoted fandom feel like homework. But for the most part, there is a general sense that studios want these stories to have a straightforward continuity, a steady foundation of cause and effect that would allow even the most casual of viewers to catch up with relative ease.

That's why it is so fascinating when certain franchises completely disregard the notion of continuity. These are the film series where each installment could technically be seen as a standalone story, where the connective tissue is barely perceptible, as any chronological connections between the films could be best described as loose, and frankly, that's a charitable term for some of the franchises I'll be exploring in this blog post.

Mad Max: Fury Road (2015)

Evil Dead II (1987)

I think arguably two of the best examples of franchises with a very loose continuity are the Mad Max films and the Evil Dead films, mainly because they share a remarkably similar trajectory in their evolution, as well as a comparable attitude about the importance of seeing each installment as a singular story. In the case of the first installments, Mad Max (1979) and The Evil Dead (1981), these were very low-budget directorial debuts for George Miller and Sam Raimi respectively, the kinds of independent genre exercises primarily designed to showcase the cinematic style that each director was interested in exploring.

When you watch the first Mad Max, it is striking to realize that the world of the story is nowhere near post-apocalyptic yet. The film takes place in a very recognizable reality, full of ordinary roads and towns, rather than the desolate wastelands that would become the signature environments of the franchise. Obviously this choice partly stems from the fact that at the time Miller could not afford the cost of an elaborate post-apocalyptic setting, but there is also the sense that Miller was primarily interested in a heightened version of his surroundings, a hyper-violent depiction of Australia in which criminals ran rampant on the streets and the few police officers that remain well-intentioned struggle to make a difference. The conceit of The Evil Dead is even more modest and simplistic, as it is the original iteration of a horror narrative that has now become incredibly familiar: Five college students decide to vacation at an abandoned cabin in the woods, they inadvertently end up summoning demonic spirits from a Book of the Dead, and we watch as each student gets possessed and/or killed in an increasingly horrific fashion. Both films received favorable reactions mainly because at the time of their theatrical release, they felt like fresh concepts in their respective genres, and since it had become clear that Miller and Raimi were quite talented from the get-go, there was an immediate feeling of fervent anticipation for what would be their next films.

Now, when we get to Mad Max 2: The Road Warrior (1981) and Evil Dead II (1987), we see a significant upgrade not just in terms of budget and scale, but also in terms of the distinct genre that each sequel is operating in.

The setting of The Road Warrior is now unmistakably post-apocalyptic, as the story entirely takes place in the desert lands of the Australian Outback, with the added clarification that the rest of the world has collapsed as a result of a global nuclear war. Following in the footsteps of Sergio Leone's iconic Man With No Name Trilogy (which is of course yet another great example of a film series with no apparent continuity), as well as the films of Akira Kurosawa, the plot of every Mad Max film henceforth revolves around the title character entering unfamiliar territory and saving a specific group of people. In the case of The Road Warrior, Max helps a community of settlers defend themselves against a vicious band of marauders. There is little to no direct acknowledgment of the severe trauma that Max endured in the first movie, other than a leg brace he wears throughout because he got shot in the knee in the previous film. That's about as close as the film gets to having a clear chronological progression, because otherwise it is so starkly different from its predecessor. While the first Mad Max is honestly more of a tragic thriller with a dystopian edge to it, The Road Warrior is a full-blown action-packed spectacle, with a dieselpunk aesthetic, the deserted landscapes of a western, and a decidedly post-apocalyptic sensibility. Miller has made it clear that he "sees Mad Max as a series of legends about the titular character, the kinds of campfire stories that might be passed around in the Wasteland at dark." With that ahistorical perspective in mind, it makes sense that each Mad Max film has its own self-contained quality to it. Even the criminally underseen masterpiece Furiosa: A Mad Max Saga (2024), which is ostensibly a prequel spin-off to the modern action classic Mad Max: Fury Road (2015), contains story elements that purposely contradict each other and that go against the narrative expectations of a fully consistent universe.

In terms of his approach towards Evil Dead II, Raimi did something very unusual and bold: In the first twenty minutes or so, he basically recreates and summarizes the entire plot of the first Evil Dead, except he reduces the cast from five college students to just two people, and after the end point of the first film is reached, the film becomes an overwhelmingly manic sequence of supernatural events, in which the central character Ash Williams finds himself losing his mind as he struggles to fight off the mischievous demons that surround him. Many people who saw Evil Dead II upon its release were understandably confused, as they could not fathom why Ash would possibly return to the cabin in the woods after his traumatic experiences in the first film. What became clear to fans over time is that this was not really the case, as Evil Dead II is technically more of a loose remake of the first film rather than an ordinary sequel, and if the first Evil Dead had a little bit of absurdism to it, then Evil Dead II dives headfirst into the realm of pure horror comedy. It is about as Looney Tunes-esque as a horror film can possibly get, which is why in my estimation it is one of the most gloriously entertaining films ever made. With their second installments, you can actively feel that Miller and Raimi got significantly more confident behind the camera, as they essentially let their freak flags fly in terms of how crazed their filmmaking is, and how energetic the viewing experiences become as a result. Nowadays, the Evil Dead franchise has essentially become an anthology of sorts, as each film is directed by an up-and-coming director in the horror space, and while these are great opportunities for these young filmmakers to showcase their talents within the studio system, I do find myself missing the cartoonish energy of that initial Raimi trilogy. The new films are focused on simply being terrifying, and while that's commendable in its own right, they do tend to forget that the main appeal of Raimi's style is how infectiously over-the-top it can be, how unafraid it is to be campy and ridiculous for the sake of absolute entertainment.

Interestingly however, by the time the third installments came around, Mad Max: Beyond Thunderdome (1985) and Army of Darkness (1992), those films were no longer independently financed, they were now firmly studio projects, and thus you could sense the filmmakers going for more accessible stories within the worlds they've created. Beyond Thunderdome is basically the only Mad Max film you could credibly describe as kid-friendly, as it is literally about Max protecting a colony of children that resemble the Lost Boys. Army of Darkness (which by the way should've kept its original working title, Medieval Dead, as it is in my opinion way cooler and much more playful) abandons a lot of the grotesque horror roots of its predecessors, choosing instead to be a medieval fantasy infused with the slapstick comedy that the series had become well-known for incorporating. The fact that two of the most proudly R-rated film franchises at the time chose to go with more light-hearted, PG-13 entries did not go unnoticed by the fans, who in both cases were left a bit let down by how comparatively tame these new installments were.

Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981)

Skyfall (2012)

What's also interesting is when a franchise with loose continuity suddenly decides to serialize its storytelling. For various decades, the character of James Bond would embark on all kinds of adventurous missions that were seemingly unrelated to one another. Even as certain recurring characters would repeatedly appear throughout the series (like Miss Moneypenny and Blofeld), the main appeal of James Bond was that he could be played by a different actor every ten years or so, and each actor could bring their own distinctive take to the mysterious secret agent. I particularly enjoy the famous film theory positing that the name James Bond is merely a codename, as it would provide a reasonable explanation for why each iteration of the character feels so different.

That was the case until Daniel Craig took over the role for Casino Royale (2006), which was effectively made not just as a reboot of the series, but for the first time ever, as a legitimate origin story for James Bond, demystifying the coldhearted spy and revealing the heartbroken man that he always has been. Every subsequent Bond film from the Craig era took this storyline quite seriously, as the ambition became to give Bond a significant character arc over the course of Craig's run. The results were somewhat of a mixed bag (I would say three out of the five Craig films are really good, so that's certainly not the worst batting average you could have), but I do commend the filmmakers for trying something different with the franchise, and I particularly appreciate that even with a more serialized approach, each of the Craig films still has its own particular look to distinguish itself.

A somewhat similar case applies to the character of Indiana Jones, whom George Lucas essentially created as an American equivalent to James Bond. For each of the first three films, Indy would search for a particular MacGuffin, explore an exotic location, and end up with a new love interest. Certainly the funniest side effect of these films being self-contained is that Indy always starts out being a total skeptic regarding any supernatural element, only to be humbled and proven wrong by the existence of otherworldly forces. But in the most recent two films of the franchise, as Indy has gotten older and the filmmakers have grown nostalgic about the series, there has been more of an acknowledgement of the characters that meant the most to Indy, like Marion Ravenwood, Marcus Brody, and Sallah. Even as the basic adventurous structure of the original films has been retained, there is still this identifiable feeling of serialization to the most recent movies, as they go out of their way to reference events and major characters from previous installments, often resorting to overt easter eggs and sentimental fan service.

Wake Up Dead Man (2025)

I suppose it is not terribly surprising that franchises like these that have lasted for so long would eventually succumb to the temptation of serialization, as it is indeed the current house style encouraged by studios. Mind you, I'm not opposed to serialized storytelling in franchises, as that has been done wonderfully in many cases. I just think there is something special and exciting about the franchises that let each film do its own thing, without the pressure of having everything be too strictly interconnected. By telling different kinds of singular stories, they go out of their way to make their worlds feel bigger, as opposed to the way in which serialization can sometimes make a world actually feel smaller. In terms of modern franchises, I'm a huge fan of the Benoit Blanc mysteries and how each film has its own particular identity, all while sharing recurring themes about toxic leaders and the inherently human flaw of greed. I hope that the series maintains its loose continuity for as long as possible, and that they make a million more mysteries featuring "the last of the gentlemen sleuths," cause I frankly can't get enough of that character.