Dear Andy and Larry,
I know the chances of this missive reaching you are slim, but in the age of the Internet, I figure I’ll give it a shot. I know that by posting this, there’s a chance, a small one, that someone who knows someone who knows someone who knows you will read it and send it on. Of course, by going this route, I leave it open for any and all who care to read it, but those are the breaks in the Age of Information.
On Friday, November 7, I saw your latest movie — “Matrix: Revolutions,” the third in the acclaimed Matrix trilogy. I went and saw it regardless of the weather (cold and damp). And I went and saw it regardless of the overwhelmingly piss-poor reviews. I went and saw it because I had faith that you would finish this series the same way you started it — with style, grace, intelligence, and an experienced eye for mixing philosophy and firearms.
Most of all I went and saw this film because of a guy I used to know. This guy walked out of a movie theater in the summer of 1999 stunned from head to toe, looking around the parking lot with a new sense of paranoia and suspicion, amazed that someone could come up with something so new in a Hollywood that had grown so stale.
That young, idealistic son of a bitch doesn’t exist any more. He’s older, wiser, and has a few more pairs of shoes in his closet. But I went and saw “Matrix: Revolutions” because of him, and because I thoroughly enjoyed “Matrix: Reloaded” and thought the reviewers screwed you in the ass hardcore for that one. It’s no shame to go smarter with a sequel, and there are a lot of other film buffs out there who would tell you the same.
On November 7, two hours and 20 minutes after walking into the theater, I exited and, despite the presence of innocent, pre-teen ears, I was muttering loudly the same thing over, and over again: “I want to find the Wachowski brothers and kick the living shit out of them, those goddamn, motherfucking sons of bitches.”
So … yeah. I’d like to find you and kick the living shit out of you, you goddamn, motherfucking sons of bitches. I want to pull your heads out of your asses and shake you so hard your teeth rattle. I want to pour artificial butter-like substitute in your nostrils until your brains are marinated in salty grease and then shove you in a microwave until your skulls burst like Jiffy Pop.
And I want to do it for the people.
I want to do it for all the little Neos and Trinitys out there who waited patiently for four years to see how the story ends and were treated to something so awful they thought of suicide for the first time in their lives.
I want to do it for the aging Internet geeks who spent hundreds of man-hours designing web sites glorifying your fictional world and thousands more arguing online about the most minute of details only to find themselves betrayed. And I’m not talking last-episode-of-”X-Files” betrayed. I’m talking about Jar-Jar-fucking-Binks betrayed.
I want to do it for that guy who walked out in the summer of 1999 not even caring if there would ever be a sequel, just knowing that Hollywood had created something so smart and so fun that even Keanu Reeves couldn’t fuck it up.
(Now for those of you who aren’t the Wachowski brothers, what’s to follow I would usually describe as spoilers if the directors hadn’t spoiled the movie already)
After I’ve done all that, I’d want to ask you some questions.
Like why you went from the pleasingly complex philosophical conundrum that “Matrix: Reloaded” ended on to an hour-long battle sequence featuring none of the main characters and using dialogue so clichéd it could have come from the cutting room floor of “Pearl Harbor.”
And why the scenes were so disjointed the movie felt like it was edited by an autistic chimp.
And why, when her chest was pierced by three or more steel spikes, it took Trinity so long to die that by the end I was begging Neo to shove a pillow over her face and kill the bitch already.
And, last, but oh so certainly not least, why you felt the need to subtract any and all intelligence and depth from a storyline with such great possibilities, that by midway through the movie, I was rooting for whoever would kill the other guy quickest and get me the hell out of there. “Terminator 3″ had more to say about man vs. machine than this cinematic turd. Compared to you, Schwarzenegger is a MENSA candidate.
Now, I know a few of you out there still plan to go and see this hunk of shit, and I don’t blame you. I read the reviews, and I went anyway. But let me just caution you one more time. I have previously said that “Scary Movie 2” was the worst movie I ever saw in a theater. Tori Spelling getting orally raped by a poltergeist pretty much clinched it the title. But, I have never felt angrier, more disappointed, or more betrayed by a few film canisters than I did with “Matrix: Revolutions.” Factoring in this personal animosity and weighing the film’s potential vs. what was realized, there’s no doubt it knocks “SM2″ right out of the top spot. This silver-screen slop makes “Godfather III” look like a jim-dandy third installment.
So, if any of you know the Wachowskis, please send this on. And Larry … Andy … if you guys get a hold of this, could you please contact me and we’ll arrange a time when you can fly out and get your talentless little asses kicked. Thank you.
Your biggest fan.