(Part 12 of an ongoing series)
What you know, you can’t explain. But you feel it. You’ve felt it your entire life. That there’s something wrong with the world. You don’t know what it is, but it’s there. Like a splinter in your mind, driving you mad.
Morpheus (Laurence Fishburne)
Here was 1999’s most primal fears and profoundest hopes, blown up to mythic, millennial proportions. Philip K. Dick’s “How real is this?” existentialism for the multiplex masses, jacked up a few levels from Blade Runner and Total Recall.
A summer blockbuster so horny to mindfuck the world, it couldn’t even wait for April to shoot its load. Arguably, the most tech-savvy action that cinema’s ever seen. (And to think, it “only” cost 63 million bucks.) Sci-fi that feels soaked in sex appeal (despite the fact that no one ever gets past first base. Must be all the black leather and late-90s electronica).
The dreaded sense that Big Brother’s already sucking our souls from within a digital fortress of illusion- but also the galvanizing faith that we can turn this very same fortress into our own sandbox of the gods.
There may be a select few movies from this year that I “like better,” but the truth remains: The Matrix is King Shit of ’99 Mountain.