Notobots vs. Rejecticons

Between the alarming coverage of this latest rash of Celebrity Death Plague, the almost immediately subsequent Sarah Palin-ing of the cable news cycles and the fact that I post with the regularity of a dehydrated camel, I have not had a chance as yet to bring you my very scholarly, post-structural review of Transformers: Revenge of the BLAMBLAMBLAMKAPOWBANGKERRRFOOOOOOOOMmmmmmm....!

If you haven’t seen it yet (or even if you have), the best way I can think to describe the experience would be if someone were to eat an entire box of Trix cereal and then you were to watch that person vomit up the ENTIRE CONTENTS of said box, partially digested, in arcing, projectile, pornographic slow motion. Over and over again. For two and one half hours.

Yes, it’s really colorful and there’s a lot of moving parts, but when you finish, as you examine the process leading up to voluntarily undergoing the experience, you not only reach a level of self-conscious paralysis potent enough to make you doubt your ability to make even the most basic decisions for yourself (should I breathe in here? OK, now, exhale? My God, why are there two choices?!), but you feel pretty nauseous yourself to boot.

And as a hetero male, I’m supposed to say something about Megan Fox here, but all I can really say I felt for her in this picture was embarrassed. Is she a good actress? There is absolutely nothing in the movie to clue you in either way. When her first camera appearance is ripped directly from a convenience store motorcycle enthusiast magazine, it’s pretty clear she’s not going to get a chance to be, say, Hepburn in Lion in Winter exactly.

I guess what I’m saying is that if my movie rating scale were a Richter scale, this fighting robots feature would be statistically irrelevant, i.e. not enough movement to register readable data. It would be the seismic equivalent of the earth movement you are feeling right now. Unless you are experiencing a violent earthquake right now, in which case MY GOD, GET UNDER THE DESK!

But then, just this weekend, I was startlingly amused by You Don’t Mess with the Zohan. So take my analysis for what it’s worth.