I went to see the Transformers sequel the other night. I know. You don’t have to say it. I knew before I went that it was going to be terrible and yes, it was terrible, but, in my own defense, I was really tired and I wanted to get my hearing loss back on track.
I can’t seem to learn my lesson about going to action movie sequels. I think I must have seen The Empire Strikes Back when I was too young: the idea that the second movie in a series can be better than the first was imprinted on my impressionable little brain and now I’m doomed to a lifetime of “Son of…”, “…: The Return” and “…: Overkill.”
I am right there with the reviewer at the Guardian who said, “I found it at once loud and boring, like watching paint dry while getting hit over the head with a frying pan.” It was exactly like that. Two and a half incredibly loud hours of a way too complicated plot that, I hope, relied on some kind of source material from Hasbro or it’s even more inexcusable.
You would think, given that two and a half hours, Señor Bay and Co. could keep a grip on all those plot points and tie them up nicely with a motor-oil-soaked bow, but no. I explained to R several of the things that didn’t add up (not counting the induced deafness and Megan Fox’s lip inflation) and he looked at me with that face that said, “They’re trucks that turn into aliens with feelings. Really, you’re going to go there with the believability?”
Yes. I am. Because I am fine with suspension of disbelief. As long as the requested suspension is consistent and obeys the bounds of human logic, I can hover right there with ’em. If a monster shark, a flying house and innumerable conspiracy theories can be made into sympathetic movies, you can damn well make a sports car that talks through its radio feel like my new best friend.
Displaced 
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