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The first thing I said to my friend when we left the theatre (sadly opening night effort had been made) was that I was thankful that it was over--from that point on, there had only been one Matrix movie made in my mind and the hokey, plodding sequels came and went like they were 5+ hours of deleted scenes. There were so many things wrong that I actually found myself becoming angry, like when you're stuck in a traffic jam for an hour only to learn that the root cause was somebody on the roadside losing a piece of their McGriddle between their plump thighs. Anyway, the specific insults are welling up and, as far as I'm concerned, both movies have merged into a grand amalgam of political-correctness, circular philosophy, narrative-deficiency, aesthetic-overload and of course, steaming poo...
--Commander Locke reminds me of the angry chief in so many 80's rogue cop movies. I just snickered to myself the whole time, imagining him demanding Morpheus' badge and gun.
--There are too many goddamn people in the movie to worry about. If I don't care about Neo, do you really think you're going to tug at my heartstrings with the kid with the hot-dog cart full of ammo, the bazooka-assisting-chick (who reminded me of Vasquez from Aliens) or a little Indian girl who's sympathy is exhibited by her control of the aurora borrealis? These are thin smokescreens--I still notice that Fishburne is now made primarily of gristle, that Keanu will always be Ted and that being somewhat attracted to Carrie-Anne Moss makes me feel a little queer.
--Nerdy white guys and their transparent idolization of black culture. It is most evident in three words: Roy Jones Jr. This movie is pure blaxploitation, in fact it exploits pretty much every race, including sunglasses. They even felt the need to squeeze some Indians into a meaningful role at the last minute. I'm all for diversity in casting, but when it becomes so intrusive, it becomes insulting. I was surprised that there wasn't a gay sentinel.
--The oracle taking the time to explain her changed appearance was a waste of friggin' time. "Oh yeah, I'm on the run so I decided to disguise myself as a slightly darker-skinned black lady who hangs out in ghettos with the maitre'd from PJ Chang's and dispenses information of a prophetic nature." Way to blend in. I was actually happy when Smith showed up to kill her. I only wished they had been more graphic, maybe her getting her granny underwear waistband pulled over her forehead before he turned her into a T-1000.
--The end fight between Neo and Smith. I had this pot-head roommate for a while and, naturally, he loved the Cartoon Network. During the rare occaision that I didn't demand to watch a non-child-focused show, I'd tolerate a bit of Dragon Ball Z. I never quite understood what was going on--it just seemed like a bunch of guys standing around in straining poses, building up power. Every 3-4 episodes they would finally attack each other and some stupid aerial melee would begin with missed attacks inevitably shaterring backdrops while direct hits only propelled the enemy into backdrops for shattering. I liked Dragon Ball Z better, it didn't try as hard to be idiotic.
--The Architect scenes were unintentionally hilarious. Watching Keanu's face while this guy goes on his needlessly verbose harangues is great. As far as I could see, he left there knowing that that guy was called the Architect and if he didn't leave immediately, his girlfriend was going to die and that he'd have to bring her back to life by tickling the inside of her chest using the skills he learned from the special effects guys who made Tron. What did Trinity think was going to happen when she jumped out of that window anyway? If I was getting my ass kicked, I doubt my next strategic recorse would be to jump headfirst out of a skyscraper window. Did she think she was going to land in the back of a Pier 1 truck carrying papason chairs? Its better not to think about.
--That rave scene...wow, I think that was the only time in my life that I was too angry to enjoy the sight of an exposed breast. Everybody in Zion is about to die in like twelve hours. Better get a sitter for the kids and spend our waning hours dry-humping amongst a bunch of stalagtites. I thought about everybody in the theatre during this lengthy scene and tried to tally the wasted man-hours up in my head...I thought about doing volunteer work for the first time ever, our combined efforts could have built a habitat for humanity...I felt profound sadness and realized the preciousness of every moment of life.
--The Merovingian. Using a stereotypical smug French Man to irritate people...shooting fish in a barrel you uncreative, vestal Wachowskis. Why didn't you just have the Indian guy at the begining hand Neo a Slurpee and then blow his sneakers up?
--Persephone. Andy W.--"Something is missing here. Let's see we've got every major minority and stereotype. We've made Euro-trash and S&M acceptable garb for world-saving missions. We've plundered the Bible because we couldn't create any original thought to sum up this trash heap. What is it that's missing? It must be something I'm unfamiliar with." Larry W.--"Hmmm. People like boobs, this film needs boobs--Hey stupid intern! Get me some boobs for my fim dammit! And some more Mountain Dew!" I heard they edited the Persephone-working-a-speedbag-topless out at the last minute because it was deemed too over-the-top.
--Admit it, at the end of the first movie, when Neo flew off the screen with that stupid flapping jacket noise, your upper lip was curled in surprised disgust. To see him doing it repeatedly, almost as an afterthought gets really tiresome. It would have been much more tolerable if they used wires and an action figure.
--Those Zion-defending Robot Suits were so unoriginal. People have seen anime and Aliens before you know. And would it kill you to put some sort of armor around the fleshy, easily-rendered-to-pieces operator? Let's defend ourselves with a bunch of convertible tanks! Let's just hope that our one-dimensional defense is supplemented with unforseen variables like two sassy chicks with a bazooka and some makeshift shells. If everybody in Zion had known since day one that this might happen, then the kids should've been walking to school with EMP lunchboxes. Instead, you've got Robotech that relies on wide-eyed teenagers for sustained battle readiness. Plan B, we'll retreat to the rave-cave and hope our tribal beats and epiliptic movements will cause the machines to commit suicide due to sheer irritation.
--Bane. A bad guy named Bane. Again, as if the self-mutilation and brooding faces weren't obvious enough that he was a bad guy, they had to take a baseball bat, wrap it in barbed wire and hit you with it square in the beak. Why not just name him Hitler B. Evil? Oh yeah, wasn't he responsible for getting the entire fleet of hovercrafts trashed? He's going to have some serious questions to answer when he wakes up. For the time being, let's leave him in the infirmary with a defenseless female half-wit with no survival instincts.
--Sentinels. Is this all you've got? You can manufacture a quarter million flying squid robots and not one atom bomb? Even the head machine was just a bunch of sentinels flying around to make a face and all that did was remind me of the fruit in the "Sledgehammer" video by Peter Gabriel. That just screams of laziness. Apparently, the sentient machine population is composed of two distinct ethnic groups: Sentinels and abdominal tracking shrimp. I guess that giant drill had some personality since it sprouted legs, but again, it got taken out by two women who used the Anarchist Cookbook to slap together some ordinance, so I won't give it the satisfaction of being recognized.
--Make some freakin' sense when you talk. If somebody asks you a question and you don't know the answer, shrug. Neo: Is dinner ready? Morpheus: Are you willing and prepared to fully understand the state of your dinner's readiness? I can only make you the dinner Neo, you must taste it. Neo: Whoa. ARGHHH! I think the dialogue is somehow worse than my exaggerated version. You're telling a story here, its supposed to go somewhere and make some sense. If I wanted conversations like that, I'd talk to my girlfriend on the phone.
Trainman--he could've just been replaced by an invisible forcefield when Neo tried to get on the subway. If your role can be replaced by Keanu Reeves miming walking into a non-existent wall, then you probably need to go back to waiting tables at the Ground Round--make that the homeless shelter.
The Finale--nothing. Nobody wins. What a cruddy, unimaginative anti-climax. Neo and Trinity die and mankind is rewarded by being able to realize their dream of living happily and purposefully in a bleak, subterranean dungeon until the machines decide to attack them again due to a supposed need for their scientifically unsubstantiated energy producing capabilities. That little scene at the very end, when The Architect, played by Colonel Sanders, confronts The Oracle, played by a scab doppelganger, reminded me of a pre-fight weigh-in, except for the combatants weren't menacing, chiseled pugilists, but rather a pudgy windbag with a thesaurus and a chain-smoker who likes to bake cookies. I shivered at the earth-shattering ramifications of that showdown, I mean wow, only a Stephen Hawking vs. Larry Flynt joust could compare in terms of universal significance. Neo should've defeated the machines, died and everybody in Zion could've resurfaced and started planting trees and worshipping Keanu's effigy on Sundays. I only say this because it would be impossible to milk another trilogy out of that scenario and, feel free to agree that it is tougher than the actual saccharine-sweet ending, where a minority girl makes rainbows and unicorns appear while The Scorpion's "Wind of Change" echoes in the background. Yuck.
To top it all off, in the real world, literally, I was seated next to a guy we had dubbed "Crinkles" because of his tragic handicap. Crinkles has, since birth, been unable to pour candy into his hand from a big, loud bag. Instead he is forced to scour the bottom of it each time his blood-sugar level falls below that of soda, searching endlessly for that last treat as the signature song of the bag reminds us all why we buy 65" TV's and surround sound systems to have in our homes.
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