After an evening with my friend Calvin, he and I went to see Transformers. Somehow he convinced me that it got “good reviews” and would be fun. It wasn’t hard to convince me. My son loves Transformers, these toy robots which change into cars and other cool things. Little boy toys. Lots of fun! Also, I am practicing having fun for the sake of fun. So in hopes of opening my heart a little more… I went.
The best way to describe the film was something I overheard on the way out:
“Dude my ass totally sweat through my seat in that chair man. I’m soaking wet bro.”
It’s not as homo-erotic as it sounded to me. The three hairy (but bald) guys from who knows where were clearly having a man’s night out together. The chic (but ugly) squared off baseball cap, the plaid shirts without sleeves, tight jeans that their ex-wives bought them, glazed over and completely entertained. Their only complaint was that it was too long. Somewhere in the world of marketing it’s been decided that we men want our entertainment delivered to us in intense (but short) doses. Like bad sex, or maybe a lap dance. you know… just enough to say we were there without actually registering anything, or making any effort. Somehow those marketeers must be right on some level. What do I know?
Personally I am convinced now more than ever that Hollywood can’t make a movie any more. Between hack editing, bullshit CGI , and the transparent argument between the people who are creating, writing, and directing the film with the legal department and the marketing blazes through onto the screen so sickly wet with compromise and all the blurry confusion of a dullard wandering through traffic in the afternoon looking for his glasses.
I might have enjoyed a little traffic play quite a bit more than this mash-up of 17 other movies I wish I hadn’t seen, and some mediocre computer graphics. Definitely one for the troops, not for me.
