In the sun-kissed atolls of Motunui, where the ocean’s call beckons young wayfarers to horizons unknown, Disney’s animated gem Moana (2016) sailed into hearts with its vibrant Polynesian tapestry, toe-tapping anthems, and a heroine whose spirit outshone even the demigod Maui’s bravado. The film, a box-office leviathan grossing $687 million worldwide on a $150 million budget, spawned a cultural tsunami—Lin-Manuel Miranda’s earworms like “How Far I’ll Go” dominating playlists, merchandise floods from chicken Heihei plushies to tattoo-inspired jewelry, and a sequel, Moana 2, that crashed $1.1 billion in 2024 alone. But on November 17, 2025, as the first teaser trailer for the live-action remake dropped like an anchor, the waves turned treacherous. What was meant to be a triumphant voyage—starring newcomer Catherine Laga’aia as the intrepid voyager and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson reprising his tattooed titan—has instead sparked a maelstrom of backlash. Fans, still basking in the sequel’s afterglow, are reeling from what they see as a soulless cash grab: visuals saturated with CGI that mimic the original beat-for-beat, a timeline too tight for nostalgia, and whispers of cultural dilution that threaten to capsize the project before it even launches on July 10, 2026. With YouTube dislikes outpacing likes by a ratio of nearly 3-to-1 (85,000 to 37,000 as of November 19), the trailer isn’t just divisive—it’s a siren call to Disney’s most vexing remake habit, leaving audiences adrift in a sea of skepticism.

The 90-second teaser, unveiled during ESPN’s Sunday Night Football halftime with all the pomp of a royal outrigger launch, opens on crystalline lagoons and swaying palms, the camera gliding over Motunui’s thatched villages like a drone’s fever dream. Laga’aia, an 18-year-old Sydney native of Samoan and Cook Islands descent, emerges from the surf, her lithe form silhouetted against a sunset that bleeds orange and teal. As the waves part like old friends—echoing the animated ocean’s sentient whimsy—she launches into a reimagined “How Far I’ll Go,” her voice a clarion call laced with Miranda’s signature hooks but freshened by new lyrics teasing expanded lore. Quick cuts flash her canoe slicing through turquoise swells, a hawk-shifting Maui (Johnson’s booming laugh rumbling in voiceover, though his full reveal is coyly withheld), and a climactic roar: “I am Moana!” It’s empowering, undeniably—Laga’aia’s eyes fierce with inherited fire, her movements fluid from months of haka training and outrigger paddling. Yet, beneath the gloss, cracks spiderweb. Viewers clocked the heavy CGI overlay: the ocean’s anthropomorphic curls rendered in hyper-real particles that ape the 2016 film’s fluidity, island flora blooming with uncanny valley precision, and even Laga’aia’s hair—straighter waves where the original’s wild curls symbolized untamed heritage—feeling processed into submission. “This isn’t live-action; it’s a screensaver of the cartoon,” one viral TikTok quipped, racking up 2 million views in 24 hours.

The outcry erupted faster than a volcanic eruption, flooding social media with a deluge of dread. On YouTube, where the trailer amassed 6.1 million views in its debut day— a respectable but underwhelming splash compared to Moana 2‘s record-shattering 178 million—the comment section devolved into a lament. “The original isn’t even 10 years old, and Moana 2 just dropped last year—why rush this soulless reboot?” one top-rated remark fumed, echoed by thousands decrying Disney’s “creatively bankrupt” pipeline. X (formerly Twitter) lit up with #MoanaRemakeFail trending in the U.S. and Pacific Islands, users dissecting frame-by-frame comparisons: Maui’s cliff-dive mirroring the animated leap with eerie exactitude, the ocean’s glowing summons indistinguishable from pixels past. “Feels like they fed the old film into an AI and hit ‘enhance,'” a Redditor in r/Disney snarked, her post upvoted 12,000 times. The timeline irks most: Moana premiered in 2016, its sequel in 2024, and now this? “Disney’s turning Polynesian magic into quarterly earnings,” a fan from Hawaii tweeted, her thread weaving cultural erosion with corporate greed, garnering 50,000 retweets.

At the epicenter of the storm is the CGI conundrum, a specter haunting Disney’s live-action fleet since The Lion King (2019) blurred the line between photorealism and puppetry. Directed by Thomas Kail—fresh off Hamilton’s cinematic alchemy—the remake promises a $200 million spectacle, shot across Hawaii’s volcanic shores, New Zealand’s fjords, and Atlanta’s soundstages. Practical effects abound: real outriggers crewed by Polynesian navigators, haka choreography by cultural consultants from the Polynesian Cultural Center, and Johnson’s Maui bulked up via traditional Sāmoan tattoo replicas inked live on set. Yet, the trailer betrays the illusion—digital doubles for sea beasts, augmented waves crashing with algorithmic perfection, and ensemble dances where backgrounds scream green-screen seamlessness. Critics liken it to Pinocchio (2022)’s wooden woes or Snow White‘s 2025 dwarf debacle, where CGI “companions” supplanted beloved sidekicks. “Live-action should breathe—sweat, salt, imperfection,” a film blogger on Substack argued, her essay “The Uncanny Lagoon: Why Moana’s Remake Feels Adrift” going viral with 100,000 reads. Fans fear audience revolt: Will theaters echo with walkouts, or will nostalgia nets enough ticket sales to buoy the boat? Early polls on Fandom suggest a 60-40 split—enthusiasm for Laga’aia’s fresh take versus apathy for the “imitation island.”

Cultural critiques cut deeper, slicing at representation’s tender underbelly. Laga’aia’s casting, announced in 2023, was a win: her Fa‘aala, Palauli heritage from Savai‘i aligns with Moana‘s Sāmoan roots, a step up from Auliʻi Cravalho’s Hawaiian portrayal. “I’m honored to celebrate Samoa and all Pacific Island peoples,” she beamed in a Disney D23 panel, her poise drawing Idina Menzel-level cheers. Johnson, of Sāmoan descent himself, doubles as producer, injecting authenticity via his Seven Bucks banner—consulting voyaging societies for navigation rites, weaving voyaging canoes from lauhala leaves on location. Yet, the trailer ignited accusations of “hair erasure”: Moana’s iconic frizzy mane, a nod to Polynesian texture, appears softened into beachy waves, prompting #ProtectMoanaCurls to surge with 30,000 posts. “Straightening her curls straightens our culture,” a Māori activist posted on Instagram, her video of traditional styling tutorials exploding to 1.5 million views. Echoes of The Little Mermaid‘s 2023 Halle Bailey furor resound, with some branding it “subtle whitewashing” despite Laga’aia’s Samoan blood. Defenders counter: Polynesian hair varies—Cook Islands waves are natural—and the full film may reveal wigs for sea safety. Still, the discourse underscores a broader ache: Remakes as profit over preservation, diluting indigenous vibrancy for global palatability.

Disney’s remake machine, oiled by billions, churns relentlessly. Since Alice in Wonderland (2010)’s $1 billion haul, the studio has minted $6.5 billion from 20-plus adaptations, from Cinderella‘s (2015) rags-to-riches glow to Aladdin‘s (2019) genie-fueled frenzy. But cracks widen: Peter Pan & Wendy (2023) flopped on Disney+, Pinocchio drew Netflix jeers, and Snow White‘s March 2025 dwarf swap sparked review-bombing boycotts. Moana, with its empowering Indigenous lead and Miranda’s multicultural score, seemed ripe—announcing in 2023 amid Encanto‘s Latinx wave. Kail, a Tony for Hamilton’s revolutionary staging, assembles a dream team: Screenwriters Jared Bush and Dana Ledoux Miller (Oscar winners for Encanto), composer Miranda layering new tracks like a voyaging chant for Moana’s solo voyage, and a chorus of Pacific talents—John Tui as Chief Tui, Frankie Adams as Sina. Johnson’s Maui promises heart: “We’re not remaking; we’re voyaging deeper,” he roared at a Honolulu press junket, flexing tattoos that tell ancestral tales. Production wrapped in June 2025 after a monsoon-soaked Fiji shoot, where cast bonded over umu feasts and starlit haka circles.

Yet, the trailer’s tepid splash—6.1 million views versus Moana 2‘s tsunami—signals headwinds. Analysts at Box Office Mojo forecast a $600-800 million global take, buoyed by Johnson’s draw (he’s exec-produced hits like Jungle Cruise) but battered by fatigue. “Disney’s betting on IP immortality, but audiences crave innovation,” a Variety op-ed posited, citing How to Train Your Dragon‘s 2025 live-action as a counterpoint—practical puppets over pixels. Positive ripples exist: Laga’aia’s vocal chops shine, her “I am Moana!” a clarion that quelled some doubters; Johnson’s teased shapeshifts hint at practical spectacle. On TikTok, young fans duet the song, Polynesian creators reclaiming the narrative with tutorials on wayfinding stars. “It’s a bridge to our stories,” a Tongan influencer shared, her clip of ocean paddling hitting 800,000 likes.

As December 2025 looms, with full trailers eyed for Super Bowl LIX, Disney navigates choppy seas. Will tweaks—more practical shots, curlier close-ups—right the ship? Or will Moana join Dumbo‘s (2019) elephantine regrets? The ocean, ever the film’s soul, whispers ambiguity: In Polynesian lore, voyages test resolve. For Disney, this remake is no mere paddle—it’s a quest for relevance amid remake reefs. Fans, from Motunui dreamers to multiplex malcontents, watch warily. The heart of Te Fiti beats on, but can live-action capture its pulse without drowning in digital depths? As Laga’aia might sing, the call beckons—but to where? For now, the trailer hangs like a storm cloud over paradise, a reminder that not all remakes sail smooth.