Transformers: the Movie

I enjoyed Transformers: the Movie. The spectacle of metamorphosizing machines is, for me, mesmerizing. There is something steely and logical about it, though you cannot see for sure which part of the car turns into which part of the robot. It is enough that the head of the 18-wheeler is now the chest of Optimus Prime. Like a heroic knight of old, Prime wields a sword. The Decepticon Starscream is a Lockheed Martin F-22 Raptor, while Barrricade, a Saleen S281 Mustang, subverts the public trust in the police, by posing as a cop car. When the human soldiers see Starscream and think that air support has arrived, Starscream fires upon them in a horrible parody of friendly fire. Megatron, disguised as another fighter plane, flies through a skyscraper in an echo of 9/11. The secret government agency reveals that modern technological advancements, like lasers, have been achieved through the study of Megatron when he was retrieved from the North Pole, frozen in ice. The movie aims to be a parable, of course, but I take an animal delight in its machinery, its firepower, a mindless delight that has something akin to my enjoyment of sex, of poetry.

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