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To this end, The Matrix Reloaded is structured like an endless series of Socratic dialogues punctuated by rousing speeches and high-octane action as Neo converses with and looks for answers from the Oracle, the Machiavellian power broker Merovingian and his wife Persephone, the mysterious Keymaker, the god-like Architect, and of course, the gone-renegade Agent Smith. Neo’s fighting ability is beside the point. It is annoying for me when he simply chooses to end any number of confrontations by flying off. (Couldn’t he have done that at the beginning?) However, his quest for knowledge and his willingness to reconsider his ideas on the power of fate vs. free will are ultimately what drive him along.

But the Wachowskis aren’t interested in existential noodling for noodling’s sake and they take some definite risks with Reloaded. The loss of the sly self-mockery from the first film and its replacement with a more serious and somber tone hurts the film to an extent. Keanu Reeves is definitely more entertaining in blank-faced Zen action mode than he is hidden in black robes and designer shades feeling the weight of the world. Becoming Messianic renders Neo as more of a totem and symbol than a character and takes him out of the story for large chunks (even more so in Revolutions).

The rave dance freak out is the most glaring example of the riskier material in Reloaded and the most obvious example of the power the Wachowskis had in making the sequels. Preceded as it is by Morpheus’ rousing Henry V-esque call to arms speech (a reminder of the Shakespearean tone that Lawrence Fishburne can so easily assume) and intercut with Neo and Trinity’s passionate love-making, it’s a gonzo rush of body-shaking and dread-flipping that was an easy target for derision. I was part of that enclave in 2003. This time around, I was thankful for its raw energy, its sexual vibe, and yes, for its air of dementedness.

That dementedness carries over into any number of striking individual shots that are as pleasingly over-the-top as my beloved moment from The Matrix: an elegant and reserved woman’s internal chocolate-instigated orgasm; our first glimpse of one Mr. Smith addressing another Mr. Smith; Neo massaging Trinity’s heart back to life (after removing a bullet from her abdomen.)

Considering that The Matrix Reloaded begins with apocalypse not-quite-now (72 hours and counting) for the safe haven of Zion and ends with that apocalypse still pending (12 hours and counting), its abrupt ending and lackluster cliffhanger don’t come close to sucking the air out of what the preceding two hours have built up. That’s what Revolutions accomplishes with its excruciatingly over-blown battle scenes, warmed-over retreads of moments from Reloaded, and a psychedelic new-day-dawning final shot that seems to all but point the way towards Speed Racer. Opening at only half of what Reloaded did and finishing with a proportionate total ($139 million, well below the gross of the first), the series flamed out as fantastically as it had burned brightly only months before.

But those gripes should be for another day and someone else’s column. For almost the entire length of The Matrix Reloaded, the Wachowski Brothers keep the plates they have set in motion spinning frantically, interjecting action into their philosophy (or vice/versa), providing long-awaited answers that only lead to more questions and hinting at a better future (theirs, ours, and the Matrix’) that still might come to pass. Would that more of their questions and ours had remained unanswered.

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