Transformers: Dark of the Moon

Transformers: Dark of the Moon is so bad it sapped my will to write about movies for over a month.  It turned my lifelong enthusiasm for the medium into a flaccid, faded memory of itself.  It drove me to bypass all the great films in my Instant queue in favor of old episodes of ’Doctor Who.’  It’s a horror; an abomination.  It ranks among the very worst movies ever made.  I’d sit through five sequels to Bollywood’s Krrish before I’d even let my neighbor across the street play this horror on his TV.

How bad is it?

It’s so bad that, about 45 minutes in, my three boys fell asleep on the couch while watching it.  Just let that sink in for a moment: here’s a loud movie about cars and robots and explosions that bored three healthy American boys.  It’s so bad that I, who sat through The Expendables, couldn’t sit through the action set pieces and, instead, found all manner of chores to accomplish around the house (Bathroom towel rack mounting – check.).

This movie is so bad that even thinking of it in any kind of a critical manner makes my head ache.  All I want to do is heap scorn upon it, sneer at those who made it, and never see it again.

So, yeah, this isn’t a review.  It’s a screed.  But some movies don’t deserve reviews and screeds are all they get.  Tranformers: Dark of the Moon, you’re an affront to the very notion of narrative film.  You have no artistic, aesthetic, or even prurient value.  You’re a cynical, worthless, boring embarrassment of a movie that I’m ashamed to have ever tried to screen for my kids.  Shame on you, and shame on me for renting you.

Now, begone and never be heard from again.