'Why? Where is this going? Where does it end?' Yep, Keanu's still befuddled, the Wachowskis are still carrying on glibly and self-reflexively, and we're back on the receiving end of another digital hailstorm of dystopian schlock and bore. As Morpheus' deep-dish adage has it, 'some things change ... and some things stay the same.' Mostly, they stay the same. So, fanboys itching for another dose of po-faced portent, spaced out trompe-l'oeil spectacle and climactic plastic-fantastic chop-suey can rest easy. Notwithstanding another rendezvous with the Oracle for inside dope and boiled sweets, the scene is now set, the plot apparatus in place. Revolutions is a playing-out of the match, meaning less philosophical armpit sniffing, even more action. The irony is that a film premised on a distrust of appearances should rely on this 'show me the money' approach to screen thrills - but then brazen hypocrisy was always a Matrix forte. What's missing is the intrigue or ingenuity of the first movie. For all its magpie fetishism, that one had the wit to play on our paranoia, exploit our cyber-anomie. This just wants to show you endless fists in faces. Now that's dystopian.
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