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Flicked Off: 'Transformers 2: The Revenge of Megan Fox's Rack'
Have you ever fallen into a city-sized Cuisinart that is grinding its way through a vast Chinese scrap metal field and had your face abraded with shards of aluminum and eyelash-size scraps of rusty torn iron, so all the skin is peeling off your face, your delicate nose-bones being flayed by grinding gear bits and yesterday's shredded microchips and at the same time that song "Citizen Soldier" from the National Guard commercials is blaring at top volume, and somewhere in the distance you can see that "The Hurt Locker" is screening for no good reason and there is sand inside what remains of your teeth and then Megan Fox float-flounces by (like the cow in "Twister"!) with her nipples nearly pouring out of her crop-top camisole and some kid is trying to give her a flower but she is like "I am sooo busy getting highly paid and even though the makeup department set their mirror to 'evening' instead of 'day' and so my beautiful perfect skin is sort of plastered needlessly with foundation, I am still the hottest sex doll on two legs," and so she doesn't take the flower, the poor sad flower, which stands for natural beauty, a flower which is then blenderized like a sad goose sucked into a jet turbine? If so, then you have seen the new "Transformers" movie, which opens tonight at midnight, and despite all this awful noise and machinery, the real star of this movie is Megan Fox's rack, which is unparalleled in our modern time.
Megan Fox is a magical Disney cartoon, a Jessica Rabbit run wild, and she eagerly invites the camera to attend to her every crevice and flesh-folded intersection. Even as an avowed homosexual, I cannot help but notice just how feverishly she thrusts her secret parts towards the camera at every opportunity. (Of course, the camera thrusts back, as it has the hideous, orc-like eye of "director" Michael Bay leering behind it, and clearlyhe is touching some grotesque and unnaturally short and discolored protuberance of his own flesh the whole while.) In a slightly worse world, Megan Fox would be the star not of Hasbro's idiot "Transformer" franchise but of something that has the phrase "Double Penetration" in the title. All on her own, she is reeling back twenty years of gender and film studies textbooks. While we may have thought the male gaze was wilting or troublesome, Megan Fox proves that (for her and a select few others, at least) the male gaze is just some flimsy and pitiful little ray to rub her flesh up against so as to keep warm her nearly-exposed rump. She is hard to believe, with the soft kitty-cat stripper ways of a Gina Gershon melded with the hard machineness of a Linda Fiorentino.
Can this machine do anything else? It may not matter!
The plot behind the endlessly-long series of explosions that Megan Fox's rack is forced to endure is impossible to relate or understand. Of course, the world is going to end if the bad machines get their way. That is the plot in theory. In practice, there are a bunch of machines who are mad at other machines and they enter into many encounters where they whirl around, but if you are any kind of normal person, you won't be able to tell which machine is which, and so it will pretty much look like two or more enormous microwaves with swords violently mating. Some horrible chaos happened in the editing room where someone tried to make sense of this mess but it was too late. There are some ludicrous attempts at exposition. Actually, many of them —Hasbro & Co. are trying to throw so much into this movie to account for its endless run time, they have to keep stepping back and have some machine explain its motivation. This is hilariously sad.
There is exactly one funny joke in this endless, extremely long and unbelievably loud and nonsensical movie, and it has to do with the invention of the wheel. The rest of the things that pass for humor— which often take place at the worst possible time, as the "director" feels the need to add moments of levity to its explosions, thereby undermining his "end of the world" scenario constantly—are frat-boy fag jokes, crudities, robots farting, and general moronities. All told the script is WAY too crude for children; but also, far too childish for teenagers. At least people of every age and gender can have a relationship with Megan Fox's phantasmagorical rack.
—Choire