Transformers: Dark of the Moon (2011)
dir: Michael Bay
Well, shit. I was more than prepared to tear this thing apart, actually having spent ample time reminiscing on the execrable nightmarish hemorrhoid that was 2009’s Revenge of the Fallen and getting myself all riled up with vitriolic rage and vocabulary-stretching disgust so that I could hammer out a magnum opus of disgust, a Nobel-worthy dissection and desecration of the latest soul-rape from cinema’s most reprehensible asshole. And then I paid my unbelievable 16 dollars, put on my stupid 3D glasses and proceeded to have my brain totally destroyed by hands-down the most enjoyable summer movie I’ve seen since I was young enough to buy into the over-hyped bullshit that allows such a concept to exist in the first place.
Before you cry foul and refuse to read any of my reviews ever again, take some solace in the knowledge that I am just as surprised as anyone that I enjoyed this movie. Probably more surprised, considering the great lengths I went to in order to prevent anyone that I have ever remotely cared about from subjecting themselves to the immediately regrettable ordeal of sitting through the second entry in this disappointingly shitty franchise. But fuck, dudes, the third one is good! It’s everything that the first two should have been: mindless, childish, exhilarating abandon. Legitimate escapism. An absolutely astounding good time. Bay has miraculously managed to tone down almost everything that makes him such an abhorrent figure even within the overwhelmingly vapid world of Hollywood moviemaking and somehow created a film that is reasonably coherent, genuinely funny and, most importantly, a whole lot of fun. The appalling racism of the previous entry is thankfully gone, although most of the characters do still exist as little more than common stereotypes (boo-hoo). The overtly sexist reduction of all females to mere vessels of objectification is toned down significantly, although new leading lady Rosie Huntington-Whiteley does little more than look pretty, get herself into trouble and occasionally use her “feminine wiles” to help save the day (oh well). Shia LeBeouf is allowed to portray the goofy dork that he will always invoke rather than a laughably unconvincing badass hero. The ceaseless and poorly executed potty humor of its predecessor is replaced with—and I can’t believe I’m typing this—hilarious comedic turns from a surprising array of talented cameos. And most importantly for a film like this, the action set-pieces are finally well-choreographed and easy to follow, thus making them more exciting and rewarding to the thrill-seeking viewer.
Yes, Bay still values a fetishistic approach to his visual depiction of everything and still harbors an immature obsession with all things military-related, but for the first time in his gag-inducing oeuvre this actually seems OK. This is, after all, a summer blockbuster based on a goddamn line of action figures that were aimed towards a specific age group of a specific gender to whom soldiers were always “awesome” and the opposite sex was understood to be little more than “hot.” Kids are dumb, and so is Michael Bay, and that kind of makes him the perfect choice for these films. It’s nice to see that he’s finally figured out how to make this equation work. The invasion and destruction of Chicago actually delivers on all of the empty promises made by a sad list of underwhelming alien-invasion films from the past few years, and the final (hour-long!) action scene outdoes even the most audacious sensory overloading elements of Christopher Nolan’s overrated Inception (2010) without any of that film’s poorly conceived intellectual hogwash. This is a big dumb movie done right, and for the first time since 3D’s questionable comeback I didn’t feel the least bit ripped off. But perhaps the best thing about this entire movie is that it reminded me of a personal trait that I once took great pride in but have regrettably let slip from my grasp: the staunch refusal to ever pass judgement on any work of art or tangible experience without first giving it a try. Michael Bay owes all of us an apology for the majority of his work, but I think I might owe him one, too.
More reviews after the jump…
Transformers: Dark of the Moon (2011)
dir: Michael Bay
Well, shit. I was more than prepared to tear this thing apart, actually having spent ample time reminiscing on the execrable nightmarish hemorrhoid that was 2009’s Revenge of the Fallen and getting myself all riled up with vitriolic rage and vocabulary-stretching disgust so that I could hammer out a magnum opus of disgust, a Nobel-worthy dissection and desecration of the latest soul-rape from cinema’s most reprehensible asshole. And then I paid my unbelievable 16 dollars, put on my stupid 3D glasses and proceeded to have my brain totally destroyed by hands-down the most enjoyable summer movie I’ve seen since I was young enough to buy into the over-hyped bullshit that allows such a concept to exist in the first place.
Before you cry foul and refuse to read any of my reviews ever again, take some solace in the knowledge that I am just as surprised as anyone that I enjoyed this movie. Probably more surprised, considering the great lengths I went to in order to prevent anyone that I have ever remotely cared about from subjecting themselves to the immediately regrettable ordeal of sitting through the second entry in this disappointingly shitty franchise. But fuck, dudes, the third one is good! It’s everything that the first two should have been: mindless, childish, exhilarating abandon. Legitimate escapism. An absolutely astounding good time. Bay has miraculously managed to tone down almost everything that makes him such an abhorrent figure even within the overwhelmingly vapid world of Hollywood moviemaking and somehow created a film that is reasonably coherent, genuinely funny and, most importantly, a whole lot of fun. The appalling racism of the previous entry is thankfully gone, although most of the characters do still exist as little more than common stereotypes (boo-hoo). The overtly sexist reduction of all females to mere vessels of objectification is toned down significantly, although new leading lady Rosie Huntington-Whiteley does little more than look pretty, get herself into trouble and occasionally use her “feminine wiles” to help save the day (oh well). Shia LeBeouf is allowed to portray the goofy dork that he will always invoke rather than a laughably unconvincing badass hero. The ceaseless and poorly executed potty humor of its predecessor is replaced with—and I can’t believe I’m typing this—hilarious comedic turns from a surprising array of talented cameos. And most importantly for a film like this, the action set-pieces are finally well-choreographed and easy to follow, thus making them more exciting and rewarding to the thrill-seeking viewer.
Yes, Bay still values a fetishistic approach to his visual depiction of everything and still harbors an immature obsession with all things military-related, but for the first time in his gag-inducing oeuvre this actually seems OK. This is, after all, a summer blockbuster based on a goddamn line of action figures that were aimed towards a specific age group of a specific gender to whom soldiers were always “awesome” and the opposite sex was understood to be little more than “hot.” Kids are dumb, and so is Michael Bay, and that kind of makes him the perfect choice for these films. It’s nice to see that he’s finally figured out how to make this equation work. The invasion and destruction of Chicago actually delivers on all of the empty promises made by a sad list of underwhelming alien-invasion films from the past few years, and the final (hour-long!) action scene outdoes even the most audacious sensory overloading elements of Christopher Nolan’s overrated Inception (2010) without any of that film’s poorly conceived intellectual hogwash. This is a big dumb movie done right, and for the first time since 3D’s questionable comeback I didn’t feel the least bit ripped off. But perhaps the best thing about this entire movie is that it reminded me of a personal trait that I once took great pride in but have regrettably let slip from my grasp: the staunch refusal to ever pass judgement on any work of art or tangible experience without first giving it a try. Michael Bay owes all of us an apology for the majority of his work, but I think I might owe him one, too.
More reviews after the jump…
Night of the Comet (1984)
dir: Thom Eberhardt
The seemingly American tendency to unjustifiably glamorize previous decades is certainly not restricted to the 1980s (I’m looking at you, the ‘50s, ‘60s and 70s), but that particular era of regrettable Reaganomics and equally regrettable trends in fashion is certainly the most fresh and immediately memorable for the majority of the public who has been eligible to vote in more than 2 previous presidential elections. I only spent the first 8 years of my life in the ‘80s and most of this time was occupied with being too afraid to go upstairs alone and subsequently pooping in my pants, excitedly bringing home pet turtles and then setting them free after 2 days of realizing how boring turtles are, and trying to remember not to eat dog food even though it is basically cereal, which I love(d). But despite constant efforts of my own to destroy it, my memory has always remained a strong one, and thus there are deep impressions left on my mind by that decade of awesome toys, seemingly endless action flicks, and nonstop family trips to Pizza Hut, which have inarguably helped to shape my personality, and which will always register a high degree of comfortable nostalgic recognition when presented to my wizened, grumpy-old-man senses.
There have been several films in the past 10 or 15 years that have done a wonderful job of invoking these historical impressions, most notably Ti West’s phenomenal 2009 horror throwback The House of the Devil. West’s film was a fantastically accurate and loving ode to a highly specific sensibility found in the genre films of the early and mid 80s, films which introduced my young self to the excitement of cinema and sparked a lifelong fervor for the discovery of the weird, specialized pleasures that can only be found in the bizarre fringes of the myriad and hybridized sub-genres of pop film. Night of the Comet may be one of the finest examples of the original article; a film so thoroughly entrenched within its own idiosyncratic aura that it is basically impossible not to get sucked in yourself. A low-budget extension of what essentially plays out like a halfway-conceived idea for an episode of The Twilight Zone, Eberhardt’s movie can be a surprisingly deep experience, provided you are willing to embrace its charms without unnecessarily critical judgement, or nagging, unreasonable demands for Clams Casino at a CiCi’s buffet. This is ostensibly lowest common denominator ‘80s entertainment that is also secretly really, really good.
The story is basic sci-fi fantasy schlock: a comet passes by the Earth, its cosmic tail reducing to red ash every life form on the planet with the exception of a lucky few people who coincidentally happen to be protected by specific grades of metal. Our two protagonists are total ‘80s caricatures of over-privileged but under-loved teenage sisters in Los Angeles, yet they are given a refreshing degree of depth due to the honest, organic script and the surprisingly stellar performances of the leads. Of course there are evil zombies, scientists of questionable moral value, terrible music, an abandoned mall, and countless other tropes of the genre film roster; but the genuine emotional delivery and a few well-timed twists somehow work to raise the film above suffering as merely the sum of its parts. Worth a look for anyone who either grew up in the ‘80s, or has any interest in what they felt like, at least superficially (the only way you really experience most facets of your surroundings as a child), or for anyone who simply enjoys a good flick. Cult figure Mary Woronov even makes an appearance, and the great performance from Kelli Maroney (Chopping Mall FTW) alone is worth the effort it takes to press “play” on your instant Netflix console of choice. Ah yes, one aspect of the ‘80s that still thrives today: the constant pursuit of ever more advanced laziness.
Insignificance (1985)
dir: Nicolas Roeg
First thing’s first: Gary Busey is fantastic in this movie. Pre-whatever the fuck happened to him, his performance here is understated and quietly passionate. He brings a sense of relatable turmoil to what could have easily been a one-dimensional archetype in the role of The Ballplayer, an instantly recognizable reference to a man deeply troubled by the intolerant machismo instilled in him by a crappy dad and its internal clash with a touchingly romantic love for a woman (a thinly veiled Marilyn Monroe, duh), who is herself damned to an existence in which her own inquisitive nature and unique intelligence is suppressed by the expectations and limitations placed upon her by the patriarchal interests of 1950s American culture. Two other obvious but unnamed icons appear as The Professor (Einstein), with whom The Actress shares a whirlwind experience of self-discovery, personal expression and intellectual debate, and The Senator (McCarthy), excellently portrayed by coolest-guy-in-the-world Tony Curtis. Curtis’s performance is another highlight; he brings gravitas to an historical figure that the majority of us have already decided to completely write off as a simple villain. It’s difficult not to feel pity for the guy, especially with the film’s allusions to the possibility that he was himself sexually abused during his own repressive and dogmatic Catholic upbringing.
And so Roeg does what he does best; creating fleshed-out characters, tossing them into bizarro dramatic situations, and editing the proceedings with enough flashbacks and flashforwards to have your entire Lost DVD collection scratching its head. There are a few drawbacks that luckily don’t take too much away from the film’s more successful elements: Michael Emi’s turn as The Professor can be strangely obnoxious and nearly renders Einstein an unsympathetic social retard; the strangely hot Theresa Russell overuses her raspy childish whisper in a poorly conceived attempt at sexiness that nearly derails her character’s innately prurient appeal; and, yes, much of the philosophical exposition tends to be a bit overwhelming and borders on pretentious masturbation. But Roeg ultimately manages to keep things moving along at a pleasant enough pace, littering the narrative with finely tuned emotional tweaks at exactly the right moments and allowing his performers to flirt with madness and melancholy with equal measure, and in usually reasonable doses. Essentially this is Sartre’s No Exit as seen through the prism of mid-century American psychosis. For the most part it’s an experiment that works, and—if nothing else—the final segment should at least have your eyes mysteriously tearing up a little bit, and compel you to simultaneously apologize to everyone who has ever died for someone else’s ideas of what is important, and every pornographic female image that you’ve ever used in your sad attempts to achieve a lonesome orgasm. Weird but true.
