must be able to walk on ceilings, leaprnacross rooftops, literally dodge bullets,rnand engage in aerial kung-fu battlesrnof wall-smashing fury. Well, why not?rnDidn’t Edmund Spenser dress the RedrnCross Knight, his allegorical savior, in armorrnand give him a dragon to battle inrnThe Faerie Queene? And didn’t IanrnFleming steal this conceit from Spenserrnwhen he had James Bond redeem himselfrnby vanquishing the reptilian Blofeldrnin You Only Live Twice? (The book, notrnthe movie, of course.) Whether on thernpage or on the screen, such strmts are partrnof a long and entertaining tradition.rnThey do hold the attention, especially ofrnthe young. And when all is slammed andrnsmashed, when the battle’s dust has settled,rnwe may finally get the point.rnThere is one special effect I particularlyrnliked. Some scenes are set against arnbrilliantly blank screen in which the actorsrnmove as though suspended in undefined,rnillimitable white space. No floors,rnwalls, or ceilings. “This is the construct,”rnMorpheus explains. It is a programmingrnplatform on which various “realities” canrnbe projected, a sort of epistemologicalrnblank slate that would doubtlessl)’ appealrnto Bishop Berkeley. We see various localesrnprojected onto it —a city street inrn1999, a nuclear-scorched Earth fromrn2199, a kung-fu gymnasium. I was remindedrnof a similar sequence in Sherlockrnjr. (1924), in which Buster Keatonrndreams he is stepping into a movie onlyrnto find himself buffeted about under thernblows of a lightning montage. He findsrnhimself first in front of a mansion, then inrna lion cage, next at the North Pole, thenrnin a desert, and so on. Keaton lo’ed tornplay with the medium, and so do the Wachowskis.rnThey find delight in all its potential,rnnot just in special effects.rnThere is a beautifiil scene near the beginningrnwhen Neo is about to discoverrnthe truth about his life. He finds himselfrnin a dark warehouse district, lookingrnthrough an arched overpass from whichrnrainwater cascades onto the pavementrnbelow. Wliile he stands in deep shadowrnon the left of the screen, the stone arch isrnbathed in brilliant, watery light on thernright. The shot visually beckons him tornhis rebirth.rnThe Wachowskis remember what sornmany other filmmakers have forgotten:rnSpecial effects are not enough. As theirrnnarrative hopscotches from one illusionrnto the next, it pauses time and again forrnmoments like these. There is anotherrnone midway through the movie, whenrnNeo visits the tenement apartment of arnmiddle-aged black woman (Gloria Foster,rnin a perfectly understated turn). Herrnhair is arranged in a 40’s marcel, and shernis busy baking oatmeal cookies in herrncluttered kitchen. There is a small radiornperched on top of her stained refrigerator,rnand we can hear Ella Fitzgerald softlyrnsinging “I’m beginning to see thernlight.” It is meant to be an analog to thernarch scene.rnThis is a pi’otal moment, so I will notrnsay any more. I only mention it to suggestrnthe cleverness of this sleek studio confection.rnThe Wachowskis know that anyrnself-respecting fantasy must have at least arntoehold in the real world. In fact, theyrnhaye much more. A visual imaginationrnlike theirs could very well establish a genuinernfoothold in our popular culture.rnA word of reservation. The Matrix isrnthe Wachowskis’ second film. I havernwatched their first, Bound (1996), onrnvideotape. It is a cleverly plotted, beautifullyrnphotographed, but finally repellentrnfilm about lesbians outwitting the Mafia.rnIt includes scenes of unusually graphicrntorture and—dare I say it in the matrix ofrn1999? —sexual grappling of a glaringlyrngratuitous nature. I confess I am puzzledrnthat the brotiiers could be the authors ofrnboth works. But then, they are only inrntheir early 30’s. Excess can be forgiven inrnthe young.rnGeorge McCartney teaches English atrnSt. John’s Universit}’.rnSOCIETYrnCheap Thrillsrnby Janet Scott BarloM’rnRecentiy, the New York Times ran anrnarticle that described, at somernlength, California’s latest tourist attraction,rna “theme park and dinner theater”rncalled Tinseltown Studios. Located, appropriately,rnjust a stone’s throw from Disneyland,rnTinseltown is a $15 millionrncomplex that exists for the purpose ofrn”simulating fame.” Purchase your $45rnticket (“designed to look like exclusiverngala invitations”), and the following encounterrnwith simulated fame awaits: Yourn”walk to a large grated door, which opensrnto reveal a red carpet and banks of kliegrnlights.” A throng of teenagers descendsrnon you waving autograph pads, followedrnby paparazzi setting off flash bulbs inrnyour face, reporters brandishing noternpads, and television crews stopping yournfor interviews.rnAnd that’s only the beginning. At dinnerrn(choice of steak or salmon entree,rndrinks extra), you will watch a videornreprise of your “red carpet interview,” seernyourself magically edited into a famousrnmovie such as Psycho (in this context, arnquite appropriate choice), then participaternin the event’s climax: a “faux awardsrnshow” honoring the eyening’s best “actor”rnand “actress,” an honor that you, havingrnpaid $45 for faux fame, are in realit)’rn(if that concept has any meaning here)rndearh’ hoping to simulate.rnThe New York Times described Tinseltownrnas a vehicle for “fame at its most basic:rnbeing recognized and appreciated byrna roomful of people you don’t know.”rnExcept, of course —and this is a mererntechnicalit)’—it’s all fake. As the wife ofrnan entrepreneur, I have respect for bothrnthe market system and the desires of consumers,rnand I think Tinseltown is a neargeniusrnexample of niche marketing. Asrnan observer of our shared culture, however,rnI believe it’s about as depressing asrnthings get. How ha’e we reached thernpoint where 700 adults a night will droprnhalf a C-note each to pretend publicly,rnand in the company of other pretenders,rnthat they are movie stars?rnWe know the list of possible answers.rnThere is the influence of Jerry Springerrnand trash TV, where guests are morernthan willing to be degraded in order to bernnoticed. There is the Oprah factor in thernevolution of our confessional society, inrnwhich feelings of pain in the course ofrnlife—a universal experience — are transformedrninto evidence of uniqueness.rnAnd there is the mainstream media,rnwhose find-the-drama coverage of humanrntragedy has come to make evenrngrieving parents aware that they owe therncameras something on the order of a performance.rnThe list continues, but I won’t. As farrnas I’m concerned, the single most directrnand powerful influence on the creationrnof Tinseltown was the election of BillrnClinton, the man who legitimized needinessrnas a form of charisma. What Clintonrnwanted from the presidency was exacflyrnwhat the New York Times describedrnas elemental fame: “to be recognized andrnappreciated” by a roomful (or a country-rnJULY 1999/45rnrnrn