It’s November, and that means it’s time for one last hit off the Matrix crack pipe. One last Keanu Reeves vacant stare – one last lesson in deadpan dramatics. Time for one last scale-tipping appearance by Laurence Fishburne, whose name can’t go above a title unless the title is braced with support hose. Time for one last big screen fling for Carrie-Anne Moss before stepping down to Lifetime TV as the new Connie Sellecca.
So Keanu is in the cleanest train station you’ll ever see when he encounters a little girl who delivers dialogue like she’s reading off an eye chart. Naturally, our boy feels right at home. You see, the deeper we plunge into the Matrix, the less chance anything remotely resembling acting craft will surface for air.
Once again a pin jams into Neo’s head as he jacks into the Matrix. All so he can wear some groovy sunglasses and a black dress. I don’t know about you, but if I had an outlet in the back of my head, I’d plug in a lamp and leave the sunglasses at home.
Neo, it seems, is trapped between “this world and the machine world,” a dilemma familiar to anyone at a street corner who presses a “walk” button while waiting for the light to change just like you never pressed anything at all.
Then it’s off to the Frenchman’s Goth S&M club, because computer programs really know how to party. “I don’t believe zis!” the Frenchman says when our heroes make their presence known. “My accent haz not improved sinz ze lazt Matrix feelm! Sacre bleu!”
The Frenchman’s babe, Monica Bellucci, is back in a bra that seems to be measured by the gallon, not the cup. While other girls’ moms got training bras, Monica’s mom purchased a gyroscope and a landscaper. Forget the dresser, Monica, you need a Sherpa guide!
Hugo Weaving returns as a zillion agent Smiths, each one less familiar with the concept of a finely tuned, nuance-filled performance than the next. You would think a virus that replicates this many copies could also replicate some hair, but no. Smith is a sea of beaming foreheads, a tide of fast receding hairlines.
The Wachowski brothers seem to have reached the limits of their remarkable imaginations as the metaphors are stretched well beyond their limits in this final chapter. More than once Neo, Trinity, and Morpheus gravely exchange glances which suggest “Forget all this crap, let’s just dance for Wade Robson on MTV.”
The garb may be cool and clean and black inside the Matrix, but in the subterranean real world of Zion every single character wears a torn sweater. Every one! How can humanity’s remnants build and maintain a fleet of hovercrafts but not master a needle and thread?!
Look out! A big drill bit bores through the ceiling. Followed by a giant orange apron encasing a colossal Home Depot employee.
Wait, it’s a trick! No sooner has this massive home repair specialist entered Zion when an immense swarm of flying rasta-bots flood in through the open hole. “Rasta-bot traps can be found across from hardware on the end-cap,” advises the helpful handyman in orange. But it’s too late! Imagine turning on your TV and having a million Whoopi Goldberg heads fly out from the screen to invade your living room.
WHACK! An enormous tape measure slams into one Whoopi-bot as a now defenseless Home Depot leviathan scurries back into the hole: “Time for my break,” he grumbles.
The humans defend against these Whoopi-bots the only way they know how. By climbing into joystick-powered, Hulk-sized battle-skeletons that plod like elephants and are designed, for some reason, with zero protection for the occupant! Not so much as a face-plate! This is like piloting a tank from a lawn chair atop the gun turret!
What are these things? They’re called A.P.U.’s which evidently stands for Absurdly Porous Unit. Here it is, humanity’s last stand, and we’re buckling into Tonka toys. Maybe the machine world has it right, after all.
Will Jada Pinkett-Smith and Morpheus pilot a hovercraft into Zion to save the city in the nick of time? Only if Whoopi-heads are afraid of any vehicle powered by glowing hula-hoops.
So the battle rages with line after line of Whoopi-bots decimating one ridiculous Absurdly Porous Unit after another. This thing is hopeless.
Keanu ventures to Machine City to speak to a gigantic talking smoke-wad. “Ignore that man behind the curtain,” the smoke-wad exclaims, as Keanu realizes he needs not courage or heart, but a personality would be nice.
When one of our beloved characters meets their demise during a sentimental farewell after a dumb crash landing, there isn’t a dry eye in the house. Then again, there isn’t an open eye in the house, either.
On to the real climax of this vast battle. A one-on-one Karate fight between Keanu and Agent Smith. That’s right, the war between man and machines is essentially being settled by the Matrix equivalent of an arm-wrestle.
Only now, Keanu and Smith don’t just fly, they fly with a smoke trail. Is the source of this smoke yet another metaphysical mystery of the Matrix, or have our hero and his nemesis recently overindulged in Mexican cuisine?
“It ends tonight,” says Keanu, facing off with Smith in a torrential rainstorm – but never so torrential that one should take off one’s damn shades so one can see what the Hell one is doing.
I’m glad everything in The Matrix: Revolutions makes sense to the folks in it. As for the rest of us, we can only ogle at the magnificent creations of digital animation that are Monica Bellucci’s breasts.
Thank God this is the capper to this saggy, soggy saga.
Keanu himself said it best:
Photos Copyright ©2003 Warner Bros.