Do Sequels Need to Exist?

I was casually scrolling through Instagram where reviews of the recent Disney’s Snow White kept popping up on my feed. Alongside them were countless reels proclaiming the downfall of Marvel’s next cinematic phases. As if that were not enough, the most shocking news for a film nerd and an animation enthusiast was the following post from Deadline: “Coco 2 In Works For 2029, Disney CEO Bob Iger Reveals.” That is right, Coco 2 will be hitting theatres in 2029, twelve years after the original, and I could not be less excited about it. In this piece, I will mostly focus on cinematic sequels; that is, movies conceived and released after an original installment.

As audiences, we have become conditioned to accept more as inherently better. But when creativity takes a backseat to commercial gain, it is evident that most sequels kill originality. Thus, we urgently need to talk about the purpose of sequels—and do not worry, I will not make you wait for a sequel to this article.

Sequels have been the comfort food of entertainment—predictable, safe, and ultimately unremarkable. Instead of investing in bold new stories or unheard voices, studios and publishers pump money into what already worked. Why take a risk when you can milk a familiar cash cow? This has contributed to an industry effectively paralysed by its own fear of failure. There are tons of franchises whose expiration dates have long been ignored: Pirates of the Caribbean, Transformers, and dare I say The Matrix have all stumbled when returning years later. The argument of a cash grab is thus very prevalent. If the first installment made money, a sequel will too—and thus, quality usually becomes secondary. Passion projects are shelved while executives greenlight yet another addition to a tired franchise. It is not about expanding a story but rather about selling tickets, merch, and capitalising on nostalgia.

Take the case of Coco. It is genuinely one of the most magnificent movies ever created, with beautiful graphics, an insane soundtrack, and an actually not-so-obvious plot twist: I still cry every time I rewatch it. The point is, however, that the beauty of this movie lies in its completeness—it is a remarkable stand-alone story which is so well-crafted it delivers both narrative tension and emotional closure. Thus, Coco 2 will need to delve into a different aspect than what was already explored, and I ultimately do not see it performing to the standard of the original. Plus, I do not want to see Mama Coco go. On the same note, even when sequels are made with good intentions, they risk undoing what made the original special. Think about the emotionally perfect ending to Toy Story 3, only to be reopened—and weakened—by Toy Story 4. Do we need a Toy Story 5?

However, there are some neither praise-worthy nor horrible sequels that have a higher purpose than, frankly, their own existence. Revisiting Marvel, it is undeniable that through consistent world-building and long-term character arcs, the franchise has created a deeply interconnected universe. This culminated in the cultural milestones Avengers: Infinity War and Avengers: Endgame. Watching characters, from a decade’s worth of films, share a screen in a way that made narrative sense was nothing short of epic. It would be blasphemous if I did not acknowledge that there are also some sequels that, in their own right, stand out as truly great. The Godfather Part II is often cited as the rare case of a sequel surpassing its predecessor. Paddington 2 took everything great about the first film and made it better—sharper writing, deeper emotional stakes, and even more heart. And Spider-Man: Across the Spider-Verse proved that thoughtful storytelling, innovation, and artistic vision can thrive in a sequel when handled with care.

My main problem is not that sequels cannot be good—it is that far too many are made for the wrong reasons. Not every story needs a follow-up, and not every character arc needs to be stretched into oblivion. Indie films, in contrast, rarely fall into this trap. They tend to respect narrative finality, often because they are made with storytelling at the forefront, not box office projections. And when an indie film does get a sequel, it is usually because the story genuinely calls for it. Take Richard Linklater’s Before trilogy as a perfect example: each installment—Before Sunrise, Before Sunset, and Before Midnight—was made with nearly a decade of reflection between them. These were not sequels for content’s sake; they were quiet, thoughtful continuations shaped by time, character evolution, and emotional truth. That kind of integrity is nearly impossible to find in the current sequel-saturated studio system.

At the end of the day, sequels are not inherently evil, but the way they have come to dominate mainstream filmmaking raises serious concerns. What was once a risk-worthy creative continuation has turned into a default business model, often draining the soul from stories that were perfectly fine as they were. When every film is viewed as a potential franchise, we lose sight of what makes cinema magical in the first place: the courage to tell bold, original stories that begin and end with purpose. We deserve more than recycled plots and nostalgia packages. Audiences want endings that matter—and the creative risks that come with starting something new.