The Matrix way of knowledge

Of course, the novelty of these effects wears off fast, and we soon assimilate the technique as mere technological rhetoric. "Bullet Time" sells beer now; we are not impressed. Our rapidly jaded eyes drive the arms race of special effects, a race that suggests that we will not be satisfied until we somehow break through and manipulate space itself -- a pleasure now increasingly available through computer games, like the Wachowskis' own "Enter the Matrix." As in lucid dreams, the question is all about control, a control that necessarily implies a certain technical disenchantment. We can control our dreams when we recognize they are merely dreams, just as we can create the "magic" of FX only with the total mathematicization of space-time and the images of human bodies.

The Matrix films are not neo-Luddite propaganda; the Wachowski brothers recognize that technology accompanies all our dreams. Early in the film, an insomniac Neo wanders through the depths of Zion as Councilor Hamann draws his attention to an irony only implicit in the first film: The good guys also depend utterly on machines. In their stilted chat, Neo differentiates between the Matrix and Zion's technological infrastructure, a steam-punk space of Tesla-coil arc lights and corroded "Modern Times" gears that looks back to the organic textures of the last century. Neo implies that Zion is free because humans have control. But this 19th century romance only raises the question Hamann asks him: "What is control?"

This question is not just the nut of the movie. It is the central koan of our cybernetic civilization and its ever more intricate symbiosis with algorithms, control systems and the kind of self-replicating bots suggested by Agent Smith. All the representatives of the Matrix, even the Oracle, continually suggest that conscious human agency is not what it's cracked up to be. During his first balletic bash with Neo, Smith, though now apparently a "free agent" like Neo, insists that everything is determined by its purpose. He does not use the term as Morpheus later does, to suggest destiny or a higher calling. Instead, he means a techno-Darwinian logic, a programmed calculus of success. His is the voice of the evolutionary psychologist, who delights in deconstructing our most spirited social actions in terms of the base advantage they confer. This is also the perspective of the Merovingian, who comes off as a curious hybrid between "Jesus Christ Superstar's" Herod and Pilate. With the aphrodisiac piece of pie he feeds a future fuck-bunny, the Merovingian raises the distinct glandular possibility that "decision" is simply the story the brain tells itself about the neural cascades of electrochemical reactions that underlie behavior. Code rules: Despite appearances, we are out of control.

As mythographers, the Wachowski brothers realize that the cybernetic problem of control reboots the hoary old struggle between freedom and fate. Morpheus, for example, is convinced that everything is proceeding according to cosmic plan, but his increasingly tedious speechifying about destiny and prophecy weirdly mirrors Agent Smith's grim talk of mechanical purpose. What, then, is the proper rejoinder to determinism? The Oracle tells Neo that "You are here to understand why you made the choice, not to make the choice." I take this to mean that, to an awakened one, events and decisions have always already occurred, but that understanding and compassion can still dissolve their karmic hold.

OK, enough already. It's silly to squeeze too many meanings from a cyber-chopsocky flick; as in the anime tradition the Wachowskis draw from, metaphysical puzzles are more for atmosphere than answers. I won't even get into Neo's final chat with the Architect, although I suspect that all the talk of anomalies and contingent affirmations won't really add up in the end. But adding up is not really the point (unless you are talking about adding up the merchandise sold to fans who want to spend as much time as possible in the Wachowskis' endlessly nested construct). Like the overly complex plots of film noir, which ultimately serve only to increase the vibe of claustrophobic paranoia, "The Matrix Reloaded's" fractured chatter is in service of an old Gnostic hunch: There is a crack in the cosmic machine, and we are the crack.

As I left the theater after watching the new film, I was handed a slick little flier. "Take the Red Pill," it said. "Join the Resistance." At first I thought it was a Christian tract, but it was Not in Our Name's clever attempt at a wake-up call for a very sleepy nation. Here are the truths the tract's authors offered: slaughtered Iraqis, Orwellian homeland security, deportations and military tribunals, endless war and repression. But they also saw a light at the end of the rabbit hole. "Another world is possible and we pledge to make it real," they said. "Join us." They listed some numbers, and I impulsively looked around for the nearest public phone, as if I were Clark Kent, or Neo trying to slip back out of the Matrix. I didn't see one. They're not easy to find these days.

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