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The word that kept coming to mind while watching The Matrix Resurrections was “echo.” Not déjà vu — not the spooky sensation of having dreamt or lived something already without being able to account for when or where it happened. But echo: in which you know the origin, you can pinpoint the source, and yet here it comes, boomeranging back, somewhat the same as before, but also different. Distorted.
A case in point: the return of familiar characters, like Morpheus and Mr. Smith — unforgettably played by Laurence Fishburne and Hugo Weaving, respectively — but without those actors. (This is no spoiler; we’ve known since at least last year that Fishburne hadn’t been invited back for this sequel.) And a plot, meanwhile, that winkingly replays the story we already knew, almost beat by beat, with an awareness that only heightens the sense of revision. This is a movie that’s playing out in its own, disruptive present tense, looking back on its past self with curiosity and also skepticism. Unsurprisingly, this gets literalized: Minutes into the movie, a crew of familiar characters looks on from a distance as the opening scene of The Matrix replays itself… sort of. And throughout Resurrections, quick, cutting insertions of the previous Matrix movies jut their way into this new movie, sometimes in the form of memories, or maybe-hallucinations; other times grafted onto a literal screen, a torn curtain of sorts, like they’re a scene from a movie — which, so far as we’re concerned, is what they are.
Most ominously of all, we get the return of déjà vu itself, which was once a mere harbinger of some revision in the code of the so-called Matrix, a bit of cleverly conceptual world-building incited by the appearance of a black cat — less of an outright, midsequence info-dump than a brief pause in the action for a tiny info-leak, all of it whittled down into the form of a random animal. Now, in Resurrections, Déjà Vu is the name of an actual black cat. And that cat belongs to the therapist of Thomas Anderson (Keanu Reeves), a man recovering from a suicide attempt and very much still working through it. Anderson’s therapist wears glasses with bright blue rims — a singular, unmistakable blue, an unmissable echo retrieved from the franchise’s gnarled world of symbols and codes. An echo: the same, different. And consistent in this fact: It is a harbinger of something amiss in this world.
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