Transformers

Transformers
Directed by: Michael Bay
Rated PG
144 Minutes

Review by Giraldo Barraza



As meteorites containing robot defenders come crashing into Los Angeles, a fat kid with a camcorder runs around gleefully and proclaims, “this is cooler than armageddon!” Although he may have been referring to the end of days in this scene, he is correct… sort of. Michael Bay’s Transformers, based on the 1980s toys, IS better than Armageddon, his 1998 asteroid movie. After making drivel like Pearl Harbor and half-hearted sci-fi like The Island over the past few years, Bay returns to cinema of destruction. Never to be confused with the likes of Kubrick, Scorsese or Speilberg, Bay nevertheless excels in the very narrow genre of the “glossy explosion” film. Never in a million years would I have imagined a monster-budget, live-action film based on toys, but lo and behold here we are. It should come as no surprise to see that Transformers is a shallow, loud, and visceral exercise in mind-numbing demolition. What is surprising is that it excels precisely because of those very same reasons. Transformers is a fleeting piece of high-gloss and highly flammable entertainment for the inner 10 year-old boy.

This film is brought to you courtesy of the Y chromosome. It is made for little boys (and boys who grew up playing with these “robots in disguise”), but it’s not comprised of snips, snails, or puppy dog tails. Transformers is filmed as slick as a Maxim photo spread and with as much depth of content. It’s filled to the brim with cars, explosions, computers, guns, and boobs. But let’s face it, if you ever played with toys and action figures, this is the category of mayhem you envisioned in your wildest playtimes. In that regard, the film does not disappoint. It pains me to say it, but Michael Bay knows how to make an action movie. The Bad Boys movies may not have been particularly good, but they are stylish. While Transformers may not be The Rock, it’s rock-solid entertainment, both fun and funny. The story here is of no importance, it’s the spectacle, stupid.

Truth be told, I don’t think I could recite the plot of this film if my life depended on it. The storyline is so forgettable it may be virtually non-existent. There was something about an alien cube, some eyeglasses, frozen robots, and eBay. That’s right, the internet auction site provides a significant plot device. In fact, eBay hasn’t had such an impact on a plot since The 40 Year-Old Virgin. Now that I think about it, that may be the targeted demographic for a film of this type. But don’t make fun of the t-shirt clad nerd sitting next to you while watching this in theaters. Leave him alone; he’s enjoying the hell out of the film and finally erasing traumatic memories of Optimus Prime dying in the animated Transformers film from 1986.

Because all the cool sequences belong to the robot alien warriors, the humans are left to be sidekicks and cannon fodder. Jon Voight is practically wasted as a Secretary of Defense that seems like a discarded character from a season of “24.” Jon Turturro gives a oddly manic performance as a “Men in Black” type character who becomes a robot’s toilet. Handsome actors portray tough US soldiers, with their survival rate in direct proportion with their handsomeness.

A majority of the human roles in this film are forgetful, with one shining exception. As Sam Witwicky, Shia LaBeouf is phenomenally charismatic. His awkward heroism and teen desperation is charming, and the audience can’t help but smile at this kid. He infuses his character with a witty tenderness that is sorely lacking from every other actor, including the young hottie (Megan Fox) we all want him to woo with his nerdy antics and rusted Camaro.

Ah, but this is no ordinary Camaro. He transforms into the robot guardian Bumblebee, and he nearly steals the show. Most of the early moments of wonder involve the reveal of Bumblebee as robot (instead of say, a possessed car), and some genuinely funny and corny moments are provided by the robot’s radio, which must have a playlist of ridiculously appropriate tracks. The music selection may be groan-inducing, but it’s also tongue-in-cheek, so we can let it slide with a wink and a smile.

There are numerous moments of “geekgasm” to be found. The iconic presence of heroic Optimus Prime is handled with the right touch of reverence, shock and awe. His voice provides some brief opening narration, but when the robot appears and the voice of actor Tom Cullen booms forth, it’s damn impressive. Introduction to each robot is exciting, and the battles between them are ripe with anticipation once the final battles begin.

Since so much effort is obviously exhausted in the dazzling and utterly convincing special effects, the script doesn’t require much else other than battle sequences. The dialogue and situations are not hip, but contemporary. It’s a script that is often blatantly self-referential in making jokes about the toys on which its based. If the screenplay aspires to do anything other than to blow things up spectacularly, it’s to provide a kind of time capsule on contemporary American society. Peppered among the action are video games, Nokia phones, GM vehicles, Indian call centers, iPods, Macbooks, and pet bling. I guess the filmmakers’ couldn’t get an advance iPhone prototype, or it surely would’ve been in there. Mark it down for the sequel.

It may not be satisfying to the more discerning filmgoer, but the sheer spectacle of Transformers is extraordinary. The final battle is so chaotic and volatile it is sure to cause disorientation and confusion, if not outright vertigo. It’s often difficult to determine who was fighting whom, and I was even left bewildered once the climatic showdown ended. For all its shortcomings in story and character development and excess in action and special effects, it works as entertainment.

Transformers is therefore the pinnacle in forgettable disposable cinema. It may not be more than what meets the eye, but it knows it’s not anything deeper. Yes, it’s a toy property, but one that translates well to expensive Hollywood production. I somehow can’t imagine something this large or fun in any proposed movie based on Barbies, Bratz or Furbys. More than any movie in recent memory, Transformers is a film that realizes that in order to satisfy the giddy boys watching these toys, it must be child’s play of the highest order. After all, when you’re making high-octane but forgettable “glossy explosion” films, it’s the action that figures.

Grindhouse

Grindhouse
"Planet Terror" directed by: Robert Rodriguez
"Death Proof" directed by Quentin Tarantino
Rated R
191 Minutes

Review by Giraldo Barraza



A love letter to old school exploitation films of the 1960s and 70s, Grindhouse is a duet of “shock cinema” presented by the church of latter day pain. These two books from the gospel of violence are creations of the two most visible disciples of exploitation cinema, Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino. This forgotten genre of films was proud to be loud, and was characterized by scratched film prints, sex, violence, and tacky movie one-sheets more akin to circus posters than works of art. It was cinema as a freak show, with less emphasis on life lessons and cranked up seedy entertainment. The hell with chicken soup; it was junk food for the soul. Exploitation’s effects can be seen today, particularly in the resurgence of “fake snuff” films such as Hostel, The Hills Have Eyes remake, and the Saw trilogy. However, most of this genre’s raw and sleazy elements have been neutered by greedy Hollywood marketing. There hasn’t been a true film that has shamelessly celebrated its trashy roots… until now. Better yet, we get two for the price of one! “Grindhouse,” you say? Nah, this Austin-based double feature would better be served by being called “Steakhouse.” And like any large dinner platter found in the Lone Star state, it is a Texas-sized helping of two chicken fried steaks. A heaping double helping of meat that is simultaneously burnt to a crisp and bloody as hell.

Grindhouse wears Austin proudly, brandishing the city’s locales like a tattoo of a Texas longhorn. Both films are centered around the Texan city, and the Texas flavor is both apparent and identifiable, like mesquite smoked barbeque or a smooth Texas-brewed beer. It must be said that both steaks are not created equal, however. The first feature, Rodriguez’s “Planet Terror,” is cheeky fun but excessive in its graphic content. It’s a little too rare, and could still to be cooked a little more. Tarantino’s “Death Proof” is extraordinary. It is the perfect steak. To help explain the difference to native Texans, the best analogy would be this: “Planet Terror” is a bottle of Lone Star Beer, and “Death Proof” is a bottle of the higher quality Shiner Bock.

Overall, “Planet Terror” feels more burlesque than it should be. The direction and acting feel sincere, but the screenplay and action sequences seem to be almost a parody of the horror trash genre. It has some style, but also a certain tongue-in-cheek (and make that a pustule inflamed tongue… and cheek) quality that only seeks to raise the bar of over-the-top action and gore. There are gross moments a plenty in this zombie movie by Robert Rodriguez, but it just lacks the fun factor from his take on the vampire movie, 1996’s From Dusk Till Dawn (also a collaboration with Tarantino). Rodriguez filmed this story with the enthusiasm of a little kid playing with his action figures, and the gore hits you with the subtlety of melting plastic toy soldiers.

Too much is going on while zombies ooze about a military base and a hospital, and the mini-character journeys between a strained married couple (Josh Brolin and Marley Shelton), two brothers (Michael Biehn and Jeff Fahey), and two former lovers (Freddy Rodriguez and Rose McGowan) are buried under mounds of pus and blood… and more blood, and more blood. Robert Rodriguez once again shows his gun fetish, and even gets to transform McGowan into a peg-legged killing machine. Bullets fly, knives slice, and blood flows thick like chunky salsa.

Rodriguez attempts to artificially infuse his film with visual touches that are identified with the genre. There are discolored images, scratched print, and warped scenes that attempt to replicate a film print that shows wear and tear from its traveling roadshow through seedy theaters and drive-ins across America. However, they are too abundant and needlessly draw attention to themselves. When a fake title card appears proclaiming a reel is missing, I just shrugged and welcomed the shortened film length. “Planet Terror” carries on too long in its execution of violence, and has a coda that I believe has an empty resonance. Rodriguez’s effort was concerned with the showmanship and the sizzle, not the steak itself.

Between these two films are fake trailers by other genre directors like Eli Roth (Hostel), Rob Zombie (House of 1000 Corpses) and Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead). All are gleefully fun and funny. Roth’s is a clear homage to John Carpenter’s Halloween, and Zombie’s is horror trash combining monsters and that old exploitation standby, Nazis. Wright’s is especially fun, because it looks like an old “Hammer” horror film without the benefit of Peter Cushing or Christopher Lee. All are flippant and satirical little exercises, and reminded me of the Beastie Boys “Body Movin’” video several years ago that caricatured Mario Bava’s 1968 film Danger: Diabolik!. They’re respectful, but fun.

The reward for finishing one steak is the presentation of another one. I hope you left room, because “Death Proof” is fan-friggin-tastic. It’s a high-octane thriller that begins as a Hitchcockian methodical stalker story and then shifts gears quickly and hits the blacktop with the enthusiasm of a maniac driver. This steak is meatier, juicer, and all around far more enjoyable. It treats the subject matter with more reverence, and carouses in its vintage pedigree. Tarantino’s steak is perfectly cooked and very satisfying.

Kurt Russell, no stranger to exploitation flicks (he was Snake Plisskin in Escape From New York, after all), is great as Stuntman Mike, a charming yet sadistic stalker whose car is his weapon. He’s so charismatic, there’s even a brief moment when he breaks the “fourth wall,” looks straight at you in the audience, and laughs. It’s scary, but disarming. We know something very bad is about to happen to the maiden, but we can’t help but smile at this monster. Reinforced like a tank, he can use his death proof ride as an instrument of destruction. The atmosphere is casual yet dangerous, and the film’s first half sizzles with tantalizing hints of sexuality and approaching peril. Tarantino’s screenplay is his strongest element, and the typical dialogue is in top form. His characters all seem richer because of the depths of the wordplay and their latent geekiness the story allows them to reveal. Here, the roots are in the road action trash genre, and references to chase classics like 1971’s Vanishing Point and 1973’s Dirty Mary Crazy Larry are peppered throughout.

“Death Proof” has both subtle chills and racing thrills, and everything is executed to perfection. The story cruises along with Stuntman Mike as a sexist and misogynistic tale, but Tarantino suddenly throws the car in reverse and hits the pedal, turning this slasher film into an empowering tale against victimization. The chase scenes are riveting cinema, and they may well cause you to pass out. Not from horrific or graphic images, but from perfectly ratcheted tension. During “Death Proof,” I was ready to tackle world records for breath holding, because I’m almost certain I didn’t breathe for at least ten minutes. It’s a roller coaster; an ass kicking ride that you want to go on again and again.

Grindhouse is a cornucopia of carnage and burlesque delight, and one hell of a ride. Fork in one hand, beer in the other, it’s a double-fisted pleasure of savory and unwholesome glee, daring us to devour it whole. It’s a double feature that is a labor of love for all involved. Rodriguez and Tarantino know what this genre is all about. The charm of exploitation begins with the raw appeal to the senses, but thrives on the strength of its characters. After all they endure, they’re stripped down to their core, and bare the essence of their dignity. It is striking that these extreme examples of cinema can be an unorthodox but effective way to reveal spirit. This film grinds it until it finds it. It’s messy, it’s fun, and its hardcore. Grindhouse is a dose of double trouble, but we wouldn’t want it any other way.