posterous film.rnBeachum has been fingered by arnmealy-nionthed white accountant —rnnicely played by Michael Jeter —whornstumbled upon a botched hold-up andrnsaw what his racist mind wanted to believe.rnNeed I add that Beachum is a solidrnfamily man with a devoted wife andrndarling daughter?rnEnter our hero: Clint Eastwood asrnSteve Everett, recovering alcoholic, inveteraternwomanizer, and unrepentantrnsmoker. He is feckless and reckless, butrnhe has got this “nose for truth.” No, I amrnnot kidding; it is in the script. The momentrnhe meets Beachum, he knows he isrntalking to a saint in prison clothes. Ofrncourse, his intuition is given a boost byrnthe presence of Beachum’s wife and five-rn}’ear-old daughter. The)’ just happen tornbe in the cell taking tearful leave of thernlong-suffering victim when Everett arrives.rnStill, he has got to make sure. Eastwoodrnsquints at Beachum and raspinglyrnechoes one of his Dirty Harr)’ signaturernlines: “So I gotta ask you, did ya kill thatrnwoman or didn’t ya?” To borrow OscarrnWilde’s observaHon on the death of LittlernNell, it would take a heart of stone not tornlaugh at such flummer)’.rnDespite a shamelessly hackneyedrnscript and artless direchon, I am happy tornreport this film nevertheless does havernsomething to say. No, not about capitalrnpunishment or racism; these issues merelyrnserve as window-dressing to frame itsrntwo really important messages. First,rnClint remains indomitably virile at 68;rnand, second, smoking cigarettes is an actrnof principled defiance against a world ofrnspineless conformitv.rnWe first see Clint at a bar rrearly convincingrna 23-year-old beaut)’ to share herrnbed with him for the night. When shernturirs liim down e’er so reluctantly, he resortsrnto bed B. hi the next scene, we findrnhim postcoitally naked with his obviouslyrnsatisfied 30-ish mistress. (Ah, if that 23-rnyear-old onl)- knew what she had missed!)rnNow, there is no doubt Clint’s torso looksrngood . . . good, that is, for a man dodderingrntoward 70. His pecs do not sag nearlyrnas much as most geezers’, nor are his bicepsrnas flaccid. A geriatrician would norndoubt find this impressive. But the rest ofrnus? Even Cary Grant knew enough tornkeep his shirt on once gravity got to him.rnEastwood also seems to be beddingrndown with the tobacco industry. Whyrnelse would all the appealing charactersrnsmoke while the uptight fussbudgets andrnhypocrites strenuously refrain? Clintrnpuffs away in defiance of his newsroom’srnsmoke-free policy and its enforcer, arnfumeless Denis Leary, the same guy he isrncuckolding. I’ve grown weary of filmrnplots tailored to accommodate close-upsrnof big-name actors savoring Marlboros.rnThese are men whose evident fitness bespeaksrnnumerous hours in the g)’m. Ofrnthe smokers you know, how many retainrnpersonal trainers and jog 30 minutes arnday?rnWell, honest)’ has a short shelf-life inrnHollywood. And this brings me to thernprison chaplain, played smarmily byrnMichael McKean. We first meet this RomanrnCatholic priest in the men’s room,rnwhere he is checking his lightly dyedrncoiffure, his teeth, and his practicedrnsmile. He is preparing to visit Beachumrnand obviously hopes to score a littlerndeath-row repentance to advance his career.rnEven when Beachum angril)- tellsrnhim that he would prefer to wait for arnminister from his own church, this unctuous,rnself-serving cleric will not let up.rnNow, I have known many priests.rnTheir ranks undoubtedly harbor a percentagernof the vain and self-involved. ButrnI strongl)’ suspect that this portion is notrnrushing to sign up for death-row duty; it’srnsimply not the preferred path to ecclesiasticalrnadvancement. Furthermore, seminariesrntoday exhort their yoimg men notrnto interfere in ministries other than theirrnown. News flash to Hollywood: ThernSpanish hiqiusition closed shop somerntime ago. What is it with film writers?rnAre they tendentious or merely ignorant?rnIn any event. True Crime makes Angelsrnwith Dirty Faces look like the gold standardrnof gritty realism.rnHave you ever suspected that what werncall reality is an elaborately contrived fictionrnor, as a character in The Matrix putsrnit, a “world pulled over )our eyes to blindrnyou to the truth?” A needless question.rnOf course you have; otherwise, yournwould not be reading this magazine. It isrnthis suspicion that the VVachowski brothers,rnAndy and Larr)’, explore with luminousrnimagination in their second film.rnThe Matrix is an intriguing live-actionrncomic book with big ideas on its mind. Itrnshimmers with an undergraduate sophisticationrnthat seems primed by a perusal ofrnGeorge Berkeley’s philosophy. Whererndoes the mental world end and externalrnreality begin? If no one is there to listen,rnis there a thud in the forest when the treernkeels over? More to the point, if esse estrnpercipi, is there a forest at all? Is it truernthat nothing exists unless perceptionrnmakes it so?rnOf course, in Berkeley’s vision, realit)’rnis underwritten by a Benevolent Perceiverrnwhose eternal vigilance props up thernsolid world around us. Such benevolence,rnhowever, is unavailable in ThernMatrix. Here, the ultimate perceiver is arnconsortium of computers, and the)’ arerndefinitely not our friends. The year isrn2199, and the computers have been inrncharge for nearl)- two centuries. Humanrnbeings are stored in vvomblike pods, theirrnminds plugged into a virtual reality thatrnmimics the world of 1999 in every last detail.rnIt seems the machines need to keeprnus around so the)’ can han’est the electricrnenergy in our bodies. We have beconierntheir batteries. (Don’t ask; it is sciencernfiction.) In a particularly chilling scene,rna pink-skinned infant is tucked into thernmetal womb of a machine that looks likernan especially repellent arthropod. Norndoubt the child will serve to power up arnchip or two.rnBut all is not lost. A remnant of thernrace has escaped the Matrix, led (appropriatelyrnenough) by Morpheus (LaurencernFishburne, who plays his role withrnsly good humor). He is accompanied byrnTrinity, played by Carrie-Anne Mossrnwith little more than an astonishinglyrnlithe body and a beautifully determinedrnface, which in her case is quite enough.rnThey are on a quest. At some unspecifiedrntime in the past, a man escaped the techno-rndream and began to wake his fellowsrnto their plight. Although he died, hernpromised to return. Morpheus thinks hernhas found the second coming of this saviorrnin, heaven help us, Keanu Reeves,rnwho plays a programmer known as Neo.rn(Names are not the film’s subtlest point.)rnOther than occasionally selling contrabandrncomputer programs, Neo is a conventionalrnyoimg man. Still, he is vaguel)’rnuneasy. Wliy? He does not know. Morpheusrnmust tell him. “You felt all yourrnlife that there’s something wrong with thernworld. All your life, like a splinter in yourrnmind driving you mad.” I don’t knowrnabout you, but I can identify with this.rnReeves invests his character with arnlook of stimned incomprehension that isrnjust right for the first two-thirds of thernfilm. Unfortunately, the look does notrnleave him when, in the last reels, he isrnsupposed to step heroically up to thernplate. By this time, however, the film’s allegoryrnhas taken a back seat to its specialrneffects, and acting is not all that essential.rnFor reasons known only to the Wachowskis,rnour savior of the 22nd centuryrn44/CHRONICLESrnrnrn