Done to death

One can only hope, but after an $80 million opening weekend, I seriously doubt it. Whereas the first movie was a groundbreaking surprise that literally changed the face of the action film, the ensuing sequels only revealed that the brothers wore no clothes. Covering the lack of original ideas, they work to disorient rather than enlighten, with characters offering plank-faced fortune cookie aphorisms while Keanu stands around repeatedly asking, “Why?”

“Why?” indeed.

In the end, the trilogy’s seemingly clever mythos ends up being nothing more than The New Testament: Revisited, with a patchwork quilt of disparate filched ideas thrown over the framework. As if that weren’t bad enough, everyone performs as if they are dispirited by the atrocious dialogue they are being forced to spit out, constipated grimaces all around (aside from Hugo Weaving as Agent Smith, who really cuts loose this time around as he chews the virtual scenery).

In fact, most of the film involves people standing around playing verbal volleyball, "vogue"-ing behind sunglasses in darkened rooms. Occasionally, gunfire breaks out. Granted, the climactic battle for Zion is thrilling, but ironically it lacks human context as the cast members allow themselves to be swallowed up in Transformer-styled Battlebots to take on the machines.