I realize I’m stating the obvious here, but it bears elucidation in light of this review because it’s the single biggest driving force behind Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. Michael Bay has a profoundly tiny dick. The man has a diminutive dangler — what’s known in medical circles as a micro-penis (less than 2.75 inches erect). And rather than seek psychotherapy for his small penis humilation, Mr. Bay deals with his itty-bitty anxieties by hiding behind his work. It’s classic overcompensation; all the symptoms are manifested in his person — long hair, leather jackets, sports cars — but none more evident than his pursuit of aggrandizement in Revenge of the Fallen. His desire to embiggen Transformers II over its predecessor — to make bigger in power, to enlarge our conceptions — is clearly an attempt to conceal his sexual inadequacy.
It’s sad, really. Mr. Bay has no ability to drive, thrust, shove or plunge. All he has in his arsenal is a malevolently irritating poke delivered with a toothsome sneer, the flick of his mullet, and a decidedly timorous and almost hopeful, “Do you like that, baby?” And so Mr. Bay takes these frustrations out in his films, and in Revenge of the Fallen his eagerness gets the best of him. It’s easy to suggest that the two-and-a-half hour series of explosions, cheesy toddler one-liners, and cacophonous, bass-heavy noises is all part of an ongoing big-dick swinging contest Mr. Bay has with McG, but if you look closer, you’ll see what’s really at play here. Revenge of the Fallen is little more than a series of explosions transposed with shots of Megan Fox’s cleavage and/or ass. Mr. Bay sees what he cannot have in the bedroom, and out of those phallic frustrations, he obliterates everything in his wake like a petulant little child who destroys the contents of his toy chest because he’s been denied an ice cream cone. Those Transformers are his toys; the big screen is his bedroom; and sexual competence is the ice cream cone that will forever elude him.
Serial killers are often associated with small-penis syndrome and though there may be little veracity in that theory, it’s apparent that Michael Bay shares the same hedonistic soullessness of a Ted Bundy or Leonard Lake. There’s not an ounce of life in the Fallen’s script. But there is little denying that the man knows how to film an action sequence — 44 years of practice borne out of sexual insufficiency will make a person an expert. In Revenge of the Fallen, Bay sticks to what he knows, barely capable of poking his spectacle into a narrative framework. It’s a battle of good and evil. Autobots vs. Decepticons. Megatron is pulled from the sea to assist the original Decepticon, Fallen (a metaphor for Lucifer? No: For Bay’s limp junk). Fallen wants avenge an ancient slight against the planet Earth by finding an instrument hidden in a monstrous Egyptian obelisk that will allow him to stab out the sun (there’s some metaphorical wish fulfillment for you).
Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf) spends all of one day in college, where he is attacked by a human-shaped Decepticon (Isabel Lucas) with a phallic tail, before he is recruited by Optimus Prime to act as an ambassador between the Autobots and the United States military, which has an uneasy relationship with the Transformers. That relationship becomes moot, however, when Fallen and the other Decepticons invade Earth in search of that sun-diffusing instrument, which Sam — along with the assistance of Megan Fox’s low-cut blouses and all powerful slo-mo cleavage — has to prevent while also retrieving a few shards and something called the Matrix of Leadership.
That’s essentially the gist of the nonsensical, incoherent, illogical ass-brained plot, and even the six-and-a-half minutes of story seems to get in the way of the other 144 minutes of shit blowing up. There are, of course, even more Transformers in the sequel, which only means it’s even more difficult to tell what’s going on, who is on whose side, and who is battling whom, which becomes particularly problematic near the end where everything is also obscured by a storm of sand.
John Turturro brings further indignity upon his career by appearing as a former government agent turned conspiracy theorist; it’s hard to say what the fuck he was doing in this movie — both Turturro and his character — except to bring shame on his family. Megan Fox is in a perpetual state of glisten and never stops pouting her lips; meanwhile, Shia LaBeouf continues his fast-talking douchenut ways. Rainn Wilson has an incredibly brief two minutes as a college prof — it’s the best two minutes of the entire movie, and the possibility he might return at the end of the film was the only thing that kept me in my seat. I’ll save you the trouble: He does not.
In addition to Fallen, there are a few other new Transformers, including a sand-sucking monstrosity that bites the tip off an ancient Egyptian pyramid (ouch); a senior citizen fighter-plane Decipticon who switches allegiances; a few mini-Transformers; and Mudflap and Skids, the Jar Jar African-American racial caricatures (gold tooth, hip-hop lovin’, bad slang, can’t read) of Transformers, who really are offensive, though it’s not too surprising: Racists have notoriously small dicks.
Lookit: Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is Bush League, and I mean that in a purely political sense. It’s chest-thumping, racially-insensitive, sexually provocative redmeat bullshit designed to get needle dicks hard. And that’s fine, if you’re a hormone-addled pubescent Beavis who gets his rocks off on blowing up frogs. But you know that, and you don’t need a review to tell you that Revenge of the Fallen is an epic shit storm so bad you’ll wish you were watching Wolverine. And for a lot of you, that knowledge isn’t going to prevent you from seeing Transformers II, and I won’t begrudge you that. Your morbid curiosity may get the best of you. The confluence of your skepticism of critics, your overwhelming childhood nostalgia, or your desire to see just how awful it is may compel you into the theater. That’s cool — that’s what a manipulative, $100 million marketing campaign will do. But you’ll probably walk out of the theater fuming, itching to murder the one guy in the theater who attempted to start an ovation every time Optimus Prime appeared onscreen (he was met with a round of blank what-the-fuck stares by a sold-out crowd).
But even if you do help to contribute to the $150 million Revenge of the Fallen is likely to gross over the next five days, you can rest easy knowing that, no matter how much money Michael Bay has in his bank account or how many bloated, corporately jingoistic films that he makes, all he has to show for it is an estate that’s the size of Delaware and a babydick the size of your little toe. It’s small consolation.
Dustin Rowles is the publisher of Pajiba. He hides his small penis behind petty insults and personal attacks on Hollywood directors. You can email him or leave a comment below.