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TRANSFORMERS: DARK OF THE MOON Stating that Transformers: Dark of the Moon is better than 2009's infamous Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is a futile declaration best left for mathematicians to ponder, as only they might care to take the time to calculate the minuscule percentage that was necessary for this to emerge, uh, superior to its predecessor. 2007's Transformers contained enough flashes of warmth, emotion and workable humor to catch many critics off guard, but all that goodwill dissipated with the release of the first sequel, which one scribe — oh, yeah, me — described as "the filmic equivalent of a 150-minute waterboarding session." This latest franchise filler is just as soulless, cynical and stupid (and five minutes longer!), with director Michael Bay no longer even pretending to care about anything but breaking his own box office records. The plot again finds Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf) taking on the Decepticons alongside other returning characters (Josh Duhamel, Tyrese Gibson, John Turturro), one newcomer (Frances "Are you fucking kidding me?" McDormand), and the Autobots: Optimus Prime, Bumblebee, Ratchet, Ironhide, Sleepy, Bashful and Dopey. Bay's fascistic tendencies aren't quite as pronounced as in the last installment, but there isn't anything this man won't do for the sake of arousing himself, be it an establishing shot of Sam's girlfriend (Rosie Huntington-Whiteley) that solely captures her 3-D-enhanced ass, a moment when Sam's mom surmises that her son must have a big schlong in order to land such hotties, or a scene in which a little girl unknowingly plays tea party with a disguised Decepticon who then leaps up and murders her mom and dad. From start to finish, it's a miserable viewing experience, and the robot slugfests are once again incoherent and endless. So why is Dark of the Moon better than Revenge of the Fallen? Two reasons. First, there's an Inception-like sequence (right down to similar music) involving a folded building that's pretty cool. And second, unlike its predecessor, there are no shots of Transformer testicles. *
THE TREE OF LIFE Terrence Malick's latest cinematic meditation is a movie that's probably easy to hate and almost impossible to defend. Detractors will be quick to label it pretentious, which seems unfair to me — pretentious denotes insincerity, and Malick is nothing if not genuine in his attempts to use the medium as a means with which to explore subjects that are important to him. Here, he's made his most elliptical film yet, a mood piece of a movie that grapples with such capital-letter issues as Life, Death, God and Nature. It's a movie that's both universal (literally, as in the creation of the universe) and personal (the birth of a child), and its neatest trick is that it feels like a Malick autobiography even as it directly speaks to receptive viewers on a one-to-one basis. It's cinema as a give-and-take relationship: The movie can only provide as much as the viewer is willing to put into it. Its primary plot centers on a family residing in Waco, Texas, in the 1950s. Mr. O'Brien (Brad Pitt) is the stern patriarch, a man who loves his family but nevertheless takes out all of life's frustrations on them. Mrs. O'Brien (Jessica Chastain) is the beatific mother, full of love, grace and charity. Jack, the oldest of their three sons (Hunter McCracken), is inevitably torn — and molded — by the conflicting behavior of his parents, and, as with any person, his childhood is carried with him into adulthood, where a grown Jack (Sean Penn) grapples with all sorts of memories, not least the painful thoughts of the brother who died too young. For those who can get on its wavelength, The Tree of Life will feel like a godsend; others will be bored by a slowly paced tale that allows the film to clock in at 140 minutes. ***
