If you’re going to be forced to return to your wrapped story by the suits (agents), make it your own again and don’t let the bastards box your art in. That’s exactly what Lana Wachowski manages with The Matrix Resurrections. Simultaneously a metatextual lament, a textual battle cry, and an ode to love’s perseverance, we are once more asked to confront ourselves, our society, and interrogate the choices we have made as a collective in the intervening years since The Matrix hit movie theaters like a freight train 25 years ago. The answers will take time, but Lana Wachowski lit a new beacon signaling we can break the chains binding us to reality.