Transformers

Now that Disney has used one of their ancient theme park rides as the inspiration for their Pirate trilogy (which grossed well over a billion dollars in the US alone), why not use an outdated toy to inspire the next gargantuan summer blockbuster franchise?

Such is the mentality of Michael Bay; the most successful (and self-satisfied) hack in our present American cinema. His sole interest in “getting butts in the seats,” has led him to create films that are visually dazzling yet achingly empty. From hokey action crap like Armageddon and Bad Boys 2, to the offensively cartoon-like Pearl Harbor, Bay has proven himself to be the worst kind of director—one who revels in emphasizing mindless spectacle over character, especially in films like Harbor that truly need to be character-driven. His casual celebration of bull-headed macho Americanism in the face of impending global catastrophe isn’t just stupid…it’s downright despicable.

And yet, with Transformers, Bay has finally found material that is the equal of his style, and in the process exposes himself for what he really is—a boy who simply likes to play with toys, and refuses to grow up. Anyone who grew up in the early 80’s would remember Transformers as the phenomenally popular action figures of the moment. Men love cars as much as boys love robots, and Transformers found a crudely simplistic way of combining both male obsessions: they were alien robots that could transform into cars.

That’s about it, as far as character goes, though there is a whole Pokemon-like plot connected to them, further perpetuated by an animated TV show and film (tragically featuring Orson Welles in his last role). The “plot” is still present in Transformers, though only to the extent the plot is ever present in a Michael Bay film—and for once, that’s a good thing. This is the dumbest, loudest, most unnecessary film of the year, and that’s exactly as it should be. The infectious silliness of the entire production marries perfectly with Bay’s prepubescent preoccupations in such a way that the film feels like it was made by the most creative five-year-old on the block.

Deflating any trace of bloated self-importance from the screen is Shia LaBeouf, the ridiculously charismatic star on the rise, who has always reminded me of a young John Cusack. Here he plays the hero role of horny teenager Sam Witwicky with a comical detachment to rival Bill Murray’s in Ghostbusters. As one Transformer observes, Sam’s pheromones are directed at classmate Mikaela (a nearly immobile Megan Fox), whose midriff is objectified nearly as often as the cars and robots. And wouldn’t ya know it, the car Sam chose to pick up girls with turns out to be a Transformer, and the kids find their lives transforming into absolute chaos.

The film’s first half is actually quite funny as it focuses on LaBeouf’s uneasy friendship with the towering outer-space mechanisms, led by Optimus Prime (whose dialogue doesn’t even try to sound less geeky than it is). It isn’t until the second half that Bay finally caves in to beating the audience numb with dizzying action sequences in which the incredible digitized detail of the robots is often obscured by incoherent fight choreography (there are times when the battling transformers simply look like hunks of scrap metal banging off one another, while writhing and contorting).

This is, in the final analysis, the ultimate Michael Bay film—a shameless orgy of testosterone, best summarized by a scene toward the film’s midsection, when Sam’s drunken mother bursts into her son’s room and asks pointedly, “Are you masturbating?” There is no nice and clean way to put this—Transformers is, in essence, two-and-a-half hours of compulsive masturbation. It’s mindless, relentless, indulgent and mechanical…but it gets you off. Ewww…boys are gross.

Rating: *** (out of *****)