Transformers II: Revenge of the Insipid.

I liked the first Transformers. I really did. I mean, I should, I am right smack in the middle of its target demographic: I spent most of my prepubescent years in the eighties and I actually owned a couple of Transformers toys. Well, I didn't, but Voltron counts, right? Anyway, that film, the first Transformers, felt like it was made specifically for me and I enjoyed the bloody hell out of it.

Then this debacle of a sequel happened.

The special effects are good, I'll give it that. The way they move and interact with eachother and their environment is beautifully rendered and almost, not quite but almost, photorealistic. But enough about Megan Fox's cleavage.

*BADA BING!*

Actually, the film is quite like its main attraction, Megan Fox: it's pretty to look at (in a 'having-brightly-coloured-pies-relentlessly-thrown-in-your-face' kind of way), but look at it for any length of time and you'll soon realise that what you're looking at is vacuous, entirely devoid of any kind of personality and wholly, wholly insubstantial. And that is without taking into consideration the blatant racism. The fact that I spent the last 50 minutes of this film wandering through my apartment, looking for random chores to do, with the film playing in the background, its sound effects blaring into my ears through my headphones, should speak for itself.

Now you'll have to excuse me, I have to go read an encyclopedia to try to revive the hundred billion or so brain cells which were crudely deadened by 150 minutes of this inanity.