“Remember: all I’m offering is the truth. Nothing more.”
To answer a very oblique trivia question, the first film I ever taught was Run Lola Run. The Matrix was the second.
Film Lit back then was the Wild West—there was so little actual structure, so few cohesive elements. I didn’t even group films into units. It was just film after film after film; I was a young and inexperienced teacher who liked action movies too much, and I designed the curriculum based mostly on vibes. To wit: the course for several years included The Matrix, The Untouchables, *and* the entire original Star Wars Trilogy.
Once I got my teaching feet wet, I cycled out some films, and made efforts to make the course more diverse, efficient, and meaningful. (I also made several key changes that aimed to optimize the learning to work ratio, but that’s a story for another arena.) And I remember thinking that it was especially redundant to show both The Matrix and Star Wars in the same semester. Both, after all, are archetypal Joseph Campbell “Hero’s Journey” stories. So, as the saying goes, I killed my Film Lit darlings, and the course moved on without them.
Looking back, I wish I had made more of an effort to present The Matrix as, among other things, a Star Wars companion. I do think that looking at the two films as similar arcs separated by a generation, and asking what the different presentations said about the zeitgeists they spoke to, would have been a lot of fun. And I’ll tell you what: as I wrote that sentence, I did think that there’s a non-zero chance I bring The Matrix back into the course. My most recent viewings confirm: I wasn’t wrong to include it in the first place, and the film has legs.
“Neo, nobody has ever done this before.”
“That’s why it’s going to work.”
The Matrix executes so many classical structural elements so well. Even though I haven’t taught the film in years, I still make more than a few references to it in my semester-opening lectures on storytelling structure. And it just oozes confidence and clarity of vision.
The opening scene, for example, is a triumph of ambition and design. After a cryptic and eerie introduction, with the Warner Brothers and Village Roadshow logos presented in the film’s signature green, we see streams of code. And though we can’t see either Trinity or Cypher, we learn a lot about both of them through what they are not saying: soon enough, it becomes clear that in that opening scene, Trinity hides her feelings for Neo, and Cypher—in his insecure adamance that the line is clean—hides his betrayal. From there, the scene does an excellent job of showing but not telling us the rules of this world.
From Trinity’s opening jump, the film establishes the rule that this world features some wild gravity-defiant choreography. We also know that she’s a badass; average police officers are no obstacle for her. We also learn quickly, though, that Agents terrify her: one of my favorite shots of the film is right after Trinity has spiraled her way through a window, rolled down the stairs, and immediately turns around and points her guns at the window, waiting for an Agent to crash through.
It’s as confident an opening as I can think of.
“What are you trying to tell me? That I can dodge bullets?”
Joseph Campbell’s influence permeates the story, especially in Act I. Anyone familiar with Campbell’s work knows that the Hero’s Journey begins with The Call, followed soon after by The Refusal of the Call, followed soon after by Meeting the Mentor, and then by Crossing the Threshold. Check; check; check; and check. (I mean, in Neo’s case, he gets a literal phone call, which ends with him confronting his fears and insecurity.) Morpheus’ Act I ending is one of my favorites of all time: “Welcome to the real world.”
That the 35-minute Act I is nearly twice the length of an average Act I is not unusual in first entries into sci-fi franchises—there’s a heck of a lot of world-building and character arcs to set up. What makes The Matrix special is how confidently the film holds back key details. Before Neo’s release from the Matrix, Morpheus is almost gleefully obfuscatory. He straight up tells Neo, “Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is. You have to see it for yourself.” Contrast that line with the starkness of Morpheus’ explanation from early in Act II: “I won’t lie to you, Neo. Every single man or woman who has stood their ground, everyone who has fought an agent has died. But where they have failed, you will succeed.”
The Wachowski brothers thus put the viewer into Neo’s shoes; in Act I, we—like Neo—are not quite sure what’s going on, and we have to do a lot of guesswork. Once we get to Act II—once we take the red pill, as it were—the exposition is more direct. That directness makes sense and works for the Trials and Ordeals (to use two more Campbellian terms) of Act II, because Morpheus’ time and the viewer’s patience are finite. I don’t remember if when I watched this film for the first time I knew or suspected that it would start a franchise; given the time devoted to world-building in Act II, I probably should have.
Perhaps my favorite structural element of Act II is the classic “No-Choice Decision” that ends it. Morpheus has been captured, and Tank, Neo, and Trinity have quite the dilemma on their hands. According to Tank, leading an attack on the Agents would be “suicide,” an assessment Neo finds more than a little credible because the Oracle has given him the “bad news” that he’s not the One. But they cannot do nothing; sooner or later, the Agents will break Morpheus’ mind, and that’s a wrap for Zion and humanity. And yet Neo cannot accept Tank’s reasonable idea to pull the plug on Morpheus. Structurally, there’s no good way out. It’s a wonderful way to add suspense and stakes to the finale.
For its part, the finale includes a few more Hero’s Journey elements: by the end, Neo is a Master of Two Worlds, who experiences Apotheosis, Resurrection, and Atonement. (A quick reminder that in Campbell’s terminology, “Atonement” means “at-one-ment.” So, just as Luke experiences at-one-ment in Return of the Jedi with Darth Vader when he sees both Vader’s missing mechanical hand and his own mechanical hand, Neo experiences “at-one-ment” when he leaps into Smith.) It’s a really fun payoff of a story that at its core is fairly formulaic.
And please know I mean that as a compliment. (And, if I may, I think Campbell would, too.) As the saying goes, “Formula is formula because it works.”
“Whoa.”
And that point brings me to what I’ve come to really appreciate about this film, on a level I just couldn’t before I saw the sequels: its balance, its restraint.
Let’s begin by returning to two structural elements. I just love how the first time we meet the “squidies,” we learn two things about them: first, that just one can mean certain death; and second, that the EMP is the only thing that can stop them. In Act III, when we see that not one but five squidies is bearing down on the Nebuchadnezzar, we know that our heroes are screwed. Increasing from one to five allows for rising action, but it’s rising action within reason. When we get to the sequels, though, squidies come not in fives but in clouds, in swarms.
The same pattern holds for Agents. The Matrix relies on us believing that no one can survive an Agent encounter. In the sequels, Neo battles dozens, hundreds, at once.
And I get it: once Neo becomes the One, the challenges for him must level up. And I get that sequels by their nature have to up antes. Fair enough. It’s still a shame. And it remains that against that backdrop, the original’s restraint stands out in clear relief.
There’s also balance in tone. There are for sure some sober elements, and yet there are also moments of levity, even in this dystopian “desert of the real”; my favorites include Mouse’s indignant defense of his “Woman in the Red Dress” side hustle, and the obvious homage to old-school westerns as Neo and Agent Smith face off. It’s a film that takes its subjects seriously without taking itself too seriously.
Perhaps most impressively, the filmmakers’ commitment to balance and restraint allows them to thread a very difficult needle: The Matrix openly addresses some heady philosophical ideas, and yet has as much fun as any action movie out there. (I know everyone loves and remembers all the shots of bullet-dodging and other super-human acts, but my favorite fun moment is when all the bullet shells fall from the helicopter in slow motion.)
The film’s masterful balance of smart and dumb inspires me to paraphrase an approach Robert Weisberg, my beloved Criminal Procedure professor, articulated often: the filmmakers know that their vision requires including philosophical discussions; and they know the best way to get that done is to give you just enough, but not too much. Yes, Morpheus is going to straight-up ask you, “What is real?” Yes, we get the “virus” lecture from Agent Smith. But, yes, moments later there are bullets flying through the window.
(The degree of difficulty of what The Matrix executes in this context becomes clear when you see the sequels, which, in my view, show a lot less restraint; several sections become extended philosophy lectures.)
“You have to understand: most of these people are not ready to be unplugged.”
Of course, there are at least two interesting twists to the film’s ambitious and restrained efforts to be intellectually inclusive. The first is that very much like its contemporary Fight Club, The Matrix is a gateway film of sorts. For those new to film analysis, there are countless opportunities to identify and analyze Easter eggs and small details—and thus feel very proud of one’s ability to analyze. (To point out just a few: Neo being called “my own personal Jesus Christ,” Neo using the book Simulacra and Simulation to store his contraband, and the very annoying and cacophonous window cleaners. (Get it? They are making it easy for Neo to see the truth more clearly?))
And, yes, I must point out that, just as is the case with Fight Club, there are some downsides to the film’s accessibility. Specifically, it’s no stretch to say that The Matrix is a founding document for many members of the QAnon community, all of whom believe themselves to be “red-pilled” and eager to “follow the white rabbit.” Like the stereotypical Fight Club enthusiasts that I’ve met in my time, some QAnon supporters believe they can see more in The Matrix than the rest of us can, and revel in their own self-aggrandizing assessments of their own intelligence and awareness. But, of course, that QAnon adherents will endlessly “bake” about what they perceive about the filmmakers’ agendas is not at all the filmmakers’ fault.
And the wrongness of these QAnon adherents brings me to the second interesting twist about the film’s intellectual agenda. What I’ve learned since I’ve stopped teaching the film is that Lilly and Lana Wachowski created The Matrix to be a trans narrative—a story about identity and transformation. Lilly Wachowski has said that she’s had many trans people thank her because The Matrix saved their lives. (If you’re interested in going down that rabbit hole, as it were, here’s a video to get you started.)
That angle adds so much freshness and depth to the film, and it’s one I wish I had considered when I taught it. It’s inspiring. Maybe inspiring enough to teach it again sooner rather than later.
“Where we go from there is a choice I leave to you.”
See you on January 24th, when we discuss O Brother, Where Art Thou? (2000)
Unit petition: analyze the "stakes creep" of sequels & prequilogies / sequilogies & reboots as us, as viewers, passing through the singularity of filmmaking technology stepping from practical effects to computer-assisted to computer. Watch and contrast entries from film properties that had releases across these eras. Discuss how storytelling can/should/must change given what's possible to show.
Star Wars (3 eras - practical, computer-assist, CGI): Darth Maul makes OG Vader look boring. This gap may be a reflection of budget and action hero / stunt double evolution. But Grievous makes Maul look boring, because Grievous is CGI and Maul is "just" Ray Park. The same spectrum applies to the space battles of OG trilogy (models on strings) vs the ILM mania in the prequels and newer ones.
Matrix (2 eras): wire-fu and the bullet time camera array were as much "practical" as they were "computer-assisted". but once Neo and the Agents were just [financially feasible] CGI assets, the fights didn't have to be restrained and so Neo fought 100 Smiths at once and flew and we had 10000 squids onscreen.
Marvel (1 era): I love 'em but the first movie of Phase 1 is a high-tech corporate governance dispute, the last movie of Phase 1 is a multidimensional alien invasion. The climactic movies of Phase 3 are a universe-wide extinction event and a time-travel heist to prevent it, respectively. How do you "reboot" that? How do audiences respond to "rebooting" the stakes to "friendly neighborhood calamities"?
And that's all without getting into the sociological elements which I think could be a whole different unit. What did viewers expect from their heros / anti-heroes / villains? What was the meaning of the Hero's Journey. etc ("looking at [Star Wars / Matrix] as similar arcs separated by a generation, and asking what the different presentations said about the zeitgeists they spoke to").