Breaking Up is Hard To Do: May 15, 2004
In which The Matrix: Revolutions fails to live up to my standards.
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Be nice to me, I’m sad. I broke up with The Matrix trilogy last night.
No, I’m not off my rocker. Yet. But if I was off my rocker, I probably wouldn’t admit it, would I? Damn. I am nuts.
Anyway, the story of the breakup goes something like this:
Last night Tony and I settled in to watch The Matrix: Revolutions on the ol’ big-screener. Five minutes into the film, I’m frowning. Five more minutes and the frown’s become a full-out scowl. This movie sucks. Cute little girls, forced one-liners, romance-novel ponderings of the word love—please, just shoot me now. I’ll stand and wait for the bullet, I won’t even dodge it in bullet-time.
Twenty minutes later I’m actually cringing, and I’m not even sure why. When did I stop caring about the plotline of the trilogy? I don’t know, but I definitely don’t care about the story. It’s an epic, and the good guys always win in epics. And I’m sick of Neo and his damn pale-assed angst, and I’m sick of Trinity’s jerky pleather movements, and I’m really sick of the Oracle’s riddles. You’re gonna die, bitch, so talk straight for once in your life. And Smith! What have they done to my Smith?!? He’s all… cartoony! With the Scooby-villain laugh! And the corny lines! Aaaugh!
It’s at the height of the battle scene that I finally throw in the towel. “I’m going to bed,” I say, “this movie is crap.” And off to bed I stomp, feeling disproportionately annoyed with the whole situation. Why am I so angry at a stupid movie? It feels like… well, like a breakup. Like I’ve been with this trilogy for years, and only now am I starting to see how stupid it’s become. You’ve changed, Matrix. You’ve changed a lot. You’re a whole different genre now, and I don’t know if I want to be with you anymore. Don’t feel bad—it’s not you, it’s me…
Sweltering under a mound of unnecessary blankets, I pick through my thoughts for an explanation. Why do I hate this movie so much? It’s no different from the other two films, not really. The Matrix was corny, and Reloaded was even cornier. Maybe it’s the blood? If I can’t stand the sight of movie blood, I should definitely see a therapist—God forbid I’m losing my morbidity. Nope, don’t think it’s that, anyway. Bad acting? The acting was always bad. Bad script? Heh, that’s what made the last two movies so fun. But this script is more… pretentious than the last. Pretentious, I muse, just like my father, and then I realize that I really have lost my mind. I just broke up with a film trilogy because it reminded me of my father. Dear god, get out the straitjackets and put me in the padded cell.
But my brain’s latched on to this breakup thing, and it’s running away with it like a frisky terrier with a half-dead gerbil in its mouth. The Matrix trilogy and I had an open relationship, yes—it had no problem if I saw other movies, or if I wrote fanfic for other fandoms. It knew about The Evil Dead, and it knew about Star Trek and Stargate: SG-1 and other fandoms which might encroach upon its sci-fi territory. It even forgave me for that brief, passionate fling with The Lord of the Rings. But now it’s gone and betrayed me, with its terrible script and its horrid acting and the fact that it still makes Trinity wear that tight pleather outfit, even though she must be sweating like a pig in there. Oh, the heartbreak.
Well, guess what, Matrix? I grouch in my mind. I can’t stand you anymore. You’re old, you’re tired, you’re a mish-mash of ripped-off ideas. Don’t think I didn’t see Doctor Who! Don’t think I didn’t watch Cleopatra 2525! I’m not as naive as you think, you stupid three-parter! And there are other trilogies out there, trilogies with good scripts and good acting! It’s not the length of the movie that counts, Trixie, it’s the quality of the content!
But I’m only bitching because I’m hurt, and the hurt will go away after a time. I’ll still remember the good times, Matrix—the Burly Brawl, the Smith scenes, the philosophy of the first installation. I won’t forget why I fell in love with you, Matrix—I won’t forget what you meant to me. Images of the bullet-time special effects slip through my mind, and I sniffle and wipe my nose on the sheets.
Crawling out from under the covers, I slide The Matrix soundtrack into the CD player and flip to Track 8. And as Rob Zombie’s Dragula pounds through my bloodstream, a solitary tear slides down my cheek.
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