The Matrix Reloadedweblog| writing| reviews| flickr| Mothcast |
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I did not hate The Matrix Reloaded. No, no. It hated me. It hated me, and it wanted me to suffer. What was I thinking? The Matrix seduced me so easily with its flashy, sexy portmanteau of computer geekery, Japanese anime, industrial rock, Hollywood action and jaw-dropping fx. Crucially, though, behind its megawatt smile and come-hither eyes there lurked a brain. A minisdisc stuffed with data hidden in a leather-bound copy of Simulacra and Simulation, a none-too-subtle metaphor planted in my brain by the film itself right near its start. It could never last. Why would it be interested in pleasing me again after all these years apart? Sure, it had sent me love letters recently, and it seemed like the spark was still there. The Animatrix reassured me that we were still destined to be together. I went into The Matrix Reloaded hoping that perhaps it did remember me, hoping that it would do those things that I liked, hoping it would thrill me like it used to. That it would be like old times. Right from the off, something was wrong. Within seconds, I knew things had changed. The opening credits were obvious, overbaked. They could've been from Spider-Man, or X-Men 2, or any number of other meaningless flings I've indulged in in the years between Matrix and Reloaded. No! I almost cried out as I was hit with this. Don't be ordinary! Not that! But Reloaded didn't want to be ordinary. Oh, no. Reloaded wanted to be monstrously bad. Look at the new people I've met in the meantime, it sneered. You don't know who they are, but I expect you to care about them without proper introductions. See all the people of Zion! See them dance to the music of Stomp! For interminable hours, but you can't get away... Oh, but there are individuals, too. Take Morpheus's commander. What do you think of him? Well, what could I say? I think he's a 70s cop show chief in a stupid coat, I spluttered. Hah! Wrong answer, you must give a fuck about this man, and also care that he's dating Morpheus's old girlfriend, Niobe. No reason. You just have to. Oh, and this guy, the fella from Oz. Know who he is? D'you care? I he may be called Link, or I may have been playing Zelda too much. Certainly someone's been playing a lot of Nintendo lately, I remarked as Neo jumped from the head of one Agent Smith to another (he's cloning himself for some tediously impenetrable reason) in a manner not entirely unlike a goth Mario taking out Koopas. I remember when you were about keeping it real, Matrix, bending reality but never breaking it. This film owes more to Miyamoto than Baudrillard, and even the former would be embarrassed at the rubbery Keanu springing round the screen to the accompaniment of uninspired, lifeless techno. Oh, and what happened to Agent Smith, anyway? When did he go from a genuinely malevolent threat to a snickering psychopath? Where's the menace, Reloaded? What happened to the feeling of invincibility, where is the love? Reloaded decided we needed to talk, so enter Lambert Wilson as the entirely superfluous and offensively Fraaainch Merovingian. As with most conversations this movie decided to inflict upon me, this aimless little chat added nothing to the plot and went on for a good.. ooh, day and a half. Or something. When I was almost slipping comfortably into a coma, Reloaded flaunted Monica Bellucci in (surprise!) an unambiguously decorative and meaningless role, followed by a so-so punch-up between Neo and a load of henchpersons we may or may not be supposed to know. So, where from here? Well, up, astonishingly. Reloaded showed a little mercy with a competently put together freeway chase/shoot-em-up. Having said that, it seemed excellent really only in comparison to the interminable dross surrounding it, and lacked the gritty danger of Speed and the movie's greatest action sequence still comes nowhere near the visceral gut-punch of the much shorter, leaner lobby shootout in The Matrix. I saw it then revealed. Where once were muscles now there was only flab, stuffed in an ungainly fashion into tight leather pants. Its once bright, nimble brain had become slow, confused and rambling. Last time, it had the capacity to fling out audacious, mind-bending concepts and pithy quotes with ease. Now it couched would-be brainfuck moments in mounds of technospeak (Neo's "confrontation" with the big boss being a case in point) and substituted wit for flatly jokey exchanges. Mostly between Agent Smiths. By the end of our reunion, Reloaded was slouching away, knowing it had broken my heart and unable to do anything but lash out with the lamest cliffhanger I'd ever seen. I was astounded with how brutally poor it was. Sticking Rage Against the Machine over the end credits was the final insult. There was no build up, it wasn't earned. It was a sad, last-ditch attempt to recapture the glory days. But it was too late. The damage was done. I was not going back. Then I saw the trailer for Revolutions, and found myself thinking "Oooh. That looks good". Or, to put it another way "Please.. hurt me again". |
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