Washed up. Wants to quit. Trains a female apprentice who continues his legacy. Finds a new purpose.
Yes, I’m saying it. Yes, I’m talking about Cars 3. Yes, the movie where the protagonist is a sentient Chevy with performance anxiety.
I only watched Cars 3 because kids. I am a Star Wars fan… or was, anyway. Bought the art books, LEGO sets, comics, computer games… The universe works in mysterious ways, and is sometimes cruel. Sometimes it’s personal. So:
Somehow, this movie delivers the ageing‑hero arc that the most famous myth given form in cinema history absolutely fumbled.
Let’s break this down before Disney sends a fleet of lawyers riding speeder bikes (because FUCK ski speeders).
Lightning McQueen: The Washed‑Up Legend Who Actually Shows Up
Lightning starts Cars 3 in full midlife‑crisis mode. He’s getting smoked by a car that looks like a high‑end gaming mouse on wheels. His friends are retiring. His sponsors are eyeing younger models. He’s one bad race away from becoming a cautionary tale on ESPN8: The Ocho.
And what does he do?
- He reflects.
- He trains.
- He eats humble pie like it’s a Michelin‑star dessert.
- He mentors Cruz because he sees her potential, not because the plot needs a checkbox ticked.
Lightning doesn’t run away to an island. Lightning doesn’t ghost the entire sport. Lightning doesn’t drink neon‑green milk straight from a space cow’s teat.
Lightning does the work.
Cruz Ramirez: The Apprentice Who Actually Has an Arc
Cruz is everything a well‑written next‑gen hero should be (whether she is fully realised or not is beside the point):
- Underdog
- Insecure
- Talented but untested
- Held back by the world, not elevated by destiny
- Forced to train, fail, and try again
Her growth is earned. Her victory is earned. Her legacy is earned.
She doesn’t get powers because the universe thinks she’s quirky. She gets good because she works.
Imagine that.
Strong new heroes aren’t the problem — poorly written arcs are.
Meanwhile, in a familiar galaxy far, far away…
Luke Skywalker becomes “Jake” Skywalker the moment he decides the best way to handle trauma is to become a Force‑powered Airbnb host who hates guests.
He doesn’t mentor Rey. He doesn’t guide Rey. He doesn’t even like Rey.
Their dynamic is basically:
- Rey: “Teach me.”
- Luke: “No.”
- Rey: “Okay, but what if I stare at you intensely.”
- Luke: “Still no.”
- Movie: “Anyway, she’s a Jedi now.”
Rey, for her part, is written like the universe’s favourite child:
- Already powerful
- Already special
- Already mythic
- Already good at everything except waiting her turn
There’s no lineage. There’s no craft. There’s no emotional baton pass. Just Girl Power™ without the character growth.
The Torch‑Passing Moment
Lightning’s handoff to Cruz is clean, earned, and honestly kind of moving. He steps aside because he chooses to — not because the plot shoves him off a cliff.
Luke’s handoff to Rey is… what, exactly?
A Force Skype session and a guilt‑trip cameo.
Lightning becomes a mentor. Luke becomes a hologram.
Cruz becomes a racer. Rey becomes a symbol.
One pair feels like a lineage. The other feels like a reboot.
Lightning completes the Return — and brings the elixir back with him. Luke never does.
One story believes the hero’s final duty is to teach; the other believes it’s to disappear.
The Irreverent Thesis, Now Fully Justified
Cars 3 — the movie about sentient automobiles — delivers a more coherent, emotionally satisfying, mentorship‑driven hero’s journey than the sequel trilogy that inherited the most famous myth given form in cinema history.
Lightning grows. Cruz grows. The legacy grows.
“Jake” sulks. Rey ascends. The legacy… what legacy.
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