Robotsploitation

“IF THE DOORS of perception were cleansed every thing would
appear to man as it is, infinite,” William Blake wrote in 1793. “For
man has closed himself up, till he sees all things through narrow
chinks of his cavern.”

If you, dear reader, are unwilling to glimpse what lies beyond those
doors, I beg you, read no further. If you fear infinite truth, I
urge you not to see Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.

For experiencing Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is to
venture into the mouth of madness. Picture, if you will, a live-action
rendition of Heironymus Bosch’s “The Garden of Earthly
Delights”—but enacted by giant robots. Add thousands of
explosions—not only do homes, office buildings, and cars blow up,
but so do planes, helicopters, motorcycles, and doghouses.
Imagine a world consumed by an “alien blood feud”—yet also one in
which eager Chihuahuas comically hump somber bulldogs. Add to this
tableau, if you dare, two big-lipped, buck-toothed, ebonics-speaking
minstrel-bots—one of whom has a gold tooth, and both of whom are
cheerfully illiterate. Even if you combine all of this—and even
if you can make it last for nearly three hours—you are still
nowhere close to comprehending Transformers: Revenge of the
Fallen.

Over 12 hours have passed since I beheld the beauty and horror of
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, a film that embodies
director Michael Bay in his most hideous and awe-inspiring
form—and still, my mind stumbles and jerks with cognitive
dissonance. For Bay has chosen not to merely make a summer blockbuster,
but to evolve the art form into something daringly abstract and
avant-garde. Here, Bay obliterates narrative coherency as if it were a
mere doghouse, achieving surreal moments the likes of which
Buñuel and Dalí could only dream. Bay spits in the face
of convention, offering a meta-commentary on cinema as a
whole—note, if you will, the scene in which John Turturro berates
an elderly, farting robot for not telling a story with a “beginning,
middle, [and] end.” When Turturro demands “plot!” from this flatulent
colossus, he is denied—for Bay knows what wondrous visions
thrive in the absence of story. In Transformers: Revenge of the
Fallen, we are granted majestic sights: We see a comely co-ed with
a whip-like tongue that first grasps, then throws Shia LaBeouf around
his dorm room. We see Turturro rip away his pants to reveal a thong. We
see Transformer Heaven, and Transformer angels. We see a dangling pair
of robot testicles. We see a midget.

In Bay’s bold cinematic language, dialogue is never spoken, but
always screamed; explosions never explode, but explode
multiple times; extraterrestrial vistas feature not only ringed
planets, but also dead baby robots.

If you are worthy of the task, you will behold Transformers:
Revenge of the Fallen, and after its bludgeoning assault on all
that you hold dear, only one thing is certain: You will be
changed. Will this metamorphosis occur during the scene in which
Shia repeatedly shrieks like a little girl? The scene in which Shia’s
parents are attacked by a sinister mime? The scene in which a tiny
robot frantically dry-humps Megan Fox’s shapely leg? Who dares ask such
things! One cannot ascertain when, exactly, the doors of perception are
pushed—nay, blown—open. No, we can only
experience Bay’s vision, and attempt to understand it. For
guidance, let us turn to one of the many cryptic koans uttered in
Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen, a film like no other:
“Sometimes you get to the end of the rainbow, and the leprechaun’s
booby trapped it.”

Exactly.