So I'm guilty, no doubt. On some level, Transformers, like many a blockbuster before it, recognizes our culpability and offers absolution. "Humans are a primitive, violent race," according to Prime, who fights for our freedom to choose—even (or especially) our freedom to choose badly. "But," he continues, "there's goodness in them." Whew, yes: primitive, violent goodness. We can live with that, right? (Speaking of goodness, Transformers reserves its greatest emotion—or indeed its only emotion—for the momentarily unethical treatment of Bumblebee, which the director shoots as if it were the 21st-century Rodney King. Bay seems to feel that cars have been taking a terrible beating in some quarters.)
Now, I'm certainly no professional party-reviewer, but even I can tell that this one is running on fumes. Everyone looks disappointed, like they came expecting a Porsche and got a Neon instead. More than a few revelers have taken to wearing their paper crowns from BK—some ironically, or at least I think so. At 11:00 or so, the DJ cranks up AC/DC's "You Shook Me All Night Long" ("She was a fast machine/She kept the motor clean")—but I'm in bed by about midnight. For me, the Transformers party was like a lot of ordeals in which we find ourselves these days: I fought like hell to get in, and then, before I knew it, I was dying to get out.