Movie review: 'Transformers'

A movie about giant toy robots shouldn't be anywhere near this much fun, really. I mean, c'mon. When I heard there was going to be a live-action Transformers movie, I pictured a debacle. Was Hollywood officially out of ideas? What's next, "My Little Pony: The Motion Picture"?

I take it all back. Transformers, it turns out, is the most sure-fire bombastic entertainment we've had in a summer of worn-out sequels. It's brainless, of course, but it's effortlessly good popcorn movie fun with some of the most dazzling special effects I've seen in years. And let me just repeat: Giant robots. Fighting other giant robots. If that doesn't set the 12-year-old boy in one's heart a-quivering, I don't know what will.

Michael Bay – director of The Rock, Armageddon, Bad Boys and other such airy cinematic action confections – isn't known for his artfulness or subtlety. But it's like he was born to make The Transformers, where all the Bay hallmarks – choppy bursts of violence, slow-motion explosions, patriotic he-men, burnished golden-skinned women – come into play in a grand pop-art tapestry of mindless action.

The plot isn't terrifically important – basically a search for a magical MacGuffin called "The Allspark," a cosmic cube very important to both sides in the robot war. The good robots and bad robots have been fighting for a long, long time, and now they've come to Earth to find their Allspark. Young Sam Witwicky (Shia LaBeouf) turns out to have an important clue to finding the Allspark, resulting in both Autobots (the good ones) and Decepticons (the bad ones) coming out for him. Even the beat-up yellow old Camaro Sam just bought turns out to be part of the action. It all adds up to an escalating series of set pieces, alternating with human subplots such as Sam's crush on a sexy delinquent (Megan Fox), and it culminates in a spectacular brawl in downtown Los Angeles.

I was a moderate Transformers fan back in the day – watched the cartoon, owned a handful of the cool toys – but have to admit I've never been a nut about it and couldn't tell you the difference between Generation 1 and Beast Wars to save my life. So changes like Optimus Prime's truck having flames painted on it and Megatron turning into a jaggedy plane-thing instead of a handgun don't really bother me. What matters with this kind of movie is the adrenaline rush, the laughs and the "wow" moments, and Bay delivers. You'll believe a robot can turn into a truck, or a plane or a boom box. The story has echoes of Independence Day with its mysterious government conspiracies and cast of quirky everyguys doing battles against cosmic menace, but it doesn't leave you with a vaguely unfulfilled feeling like that flick did.

Oddly, for me Transformers was least effective when it dwelled alone on the robots. The Autobots and Decepticons here have no real character besides "good robot" and "bad robot." The movie seems at its cartooniest when you're hearing lines such as "One shall stand, and one shall fall." The human element grounds this movie, provides most of the humor, and provides the perfect background for rock 'em, sock 'em Transformer battles. And it's an excellent cast; nobody's taking it too seriously, but LaBeouf is quite good and genuine as the wisecracking teen the movie revolves around. Fox is extraordinarily easy on the eyes and even shows hints of acting talent, while old hands like Jon Voight and John Turturro chew the scenery very well as assorted politicians and military men.

The special effects used to animate the Transformers are stunning and seamless – and the robots themselves, mostly 30 feet tall, stomp around the screen like transistorized dinosaurs (this is the kind of movie 1998's woebegone Godzilla remake aspired to be). Toon fans will be pleased to hear the familiar warm tones of the cartoon's Peter Cullen behind the voice of towering chief good guy Optimus Prime, while an unrecognizable Hugo Weaving voices the evil Megatron.

It's not a perfect movie – the villainous Megatron only shows up in the final half-hour, and the robot designs are just too cluttered – they really don't show much emotion at all, as you're too busy trying to find the faces in the gizmos and chrome. The nods to pop culture and product placements are a bit much, and as usual with most Michael Bay movies, in the end you get a little overwhelmed by all the explosions and flying tanks and swelling orchestral music at every moment.

But good lord, as movies about robots turning into cars and trucks go, this is right at the top of the heap. It's likely to be one of the year's biggest hits, as in a season of returning pirates and trolls and superheroes, it definitely shows us something we've never seen before on screen. Now where can I get one of those fancy Camaros?

Random notes: Antony sings; the Surfer … surfs?

Listening to Antony and the Johnsons' "I Am A Bird Now," in near-constant rotation on Radio Nik the past couple weeks. I'd heard about this 2005 album a fair amount but never checked out any of the music, until I was listening to Björk's new CD Volta, which boasts a duet with Antony on it. He has a fantastic, unearthly warble of a voice, straddling genders and with an almost unbearably sad undertone to it. It's a bit like Jeff Buckley crossed with Nina Simone. His androgynous voice drove me to check out his album "I Am A Bird Now," which is kind of like a cabaret set in the world of "Hedwig and the Angry Inch." The opening track on this disc, "Hope There's Someone," just knocks me in the gut in the way few songs can – utterly heartbroken and naked, a gorgeous lament or eulogy. (You can find an mp3 of this stunning tune right here.) And the rest of the disc is nearly as good – intricately arranged songs of love and remorse, a kind of passion play of sadness all orbiting Antony's alien voice. Genders are interchangable, as when he sings "My Lady Story" or "For Today I Am A Boy" (which starts out, "One day I'll grow up, I'll be a beautiful woman"). The music varies between spartan and orchestrated majesty, but always is designed to heighten Antony's voice. If the "Hunky Dory"-era David Bowie had started his career in 2000 instead of 1970, he might well be making music like this. Guest appearances by Lou Reed, Boy George and Rufus Wainwright help lend hipster outsider cred. While there's a true melancholy underpinning all of "I Am A Bird Now," there's also a crystalline, haunting beauty. Highly recommended stuff.

...Watching "Fantastic Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer." While this one won't win any Oscars, it's a terrific popcorn flick, and a lot better than the muddled first one, I thought. In its way it's really faithful to the idea of the classic Lee and Kirby comics it's based on – get in, throw around some humorous family conflict, have a ton of action, get out again in 90 tidy minutes. This one had a much more epic feeling than the first movie, with a nifty globe-trotting plot and the enjoyable presence of the Silver Surfer, brought wonderfully to life I thought. These FF movies take themselves a lot less seriously than most of the current comic book wave, which can be refreshing (and occasionally annoying when it doesn't work). Sure, they're not entirely faithful to the comic book, but you can't really nitpick every detail to death (although without that diversion, what would so many fanboys do with their lives?). This flick was far more entertaining in my eyes than the overblown, convoluted 3-hour "Pirates" franchise, for example. The acting is still fairly wooden, save Chris Evans' terrific Human Torch, and they just can't make the stretching powers of Mr. Fantastic look realistic at all, can they? Biggest disappointment for me in these two movies is how badly they've bungled Dr. Doom, comics' finest villain, as a generic cackling madman without a plan (although the final battle with him in this one was fun, with its imagery lifted directly from the comics). All in all though, a pleasant time at the flicks. I'd give it a solid B grade.

Peter and the hedgehog

Some days, you just wake up and say, man, do I have a cute kid!

(End parental bragging)

More writing about music, drugs, dead people, etc.

Head on over to BlogCritics for a few recent pieces by me:

• A look back at Lou Reed's 1973 cult classic "Berlin"

• Remixing and recreating the work of Yoko Ono with "I'm A Witch" and "Open Your Box."

• The new greatest hits collection by the late Jeff Buckley, "So Real: Songs From Jeff Buckley"

...And I haven't had time to write anything on it yet, but let it just be said, the new White Stripes disc "Icky Thump" doth rocketh hard. Bagpipes!

Dalai Lama-rama

So I went with friends Daniel and Suzie down to the brand-new Vector Arena Sunday to see none other than his holiness The Dalai Lama give a talk on compassion to a whopping huge crowd of 10,000 people. Although I was seated in row 6,392 I could still vaguely make out the little man in orange robes on stage below (and they had those big TV screens that help you see the details). It made for a fascinating spectacle, and the Lama had a nice, folksy tone that struck me as very different from how many of the major religious leaders of the world tend to present themselves, as all fire-and-brimstone. And he was wearing a jaunty visor – how can you not love that?

The talk itself was good, not particularly deep – the language barrier precluded some of that - but had a simple message anyone could get behind. He's clearly pretty fluent in English but still had to use a translator at his side fairly often to help smooth out the bumps, and it took a little while for his accent to be easily understood to me. But it's the general "vibe" the man puts off that's so appealing – he seems utterly relaxed in his own skin, like a friendly uncle figure, and his laugh is completely infectious. He had fascinating stories to relate to his message of peace; at one point he was talking about his relationship with Chairman Mao, and that really struck me how this man has interacted with most of the major figures of our time. They talk about "charisma" and it's a telling thing when you're one of 10,000 people in a room and still leave feeling a bit like you had your own personal audience with the Dalai Lama.

My three favorite bookstores

Peter is inching oh-so-close to learning to read, which I figure is pretty good for 3 1/2. He knows all his letters by heart and is constantly asking us to "read that story" and "tell me what that says," and the other day he sure seemed to be able to read some of his books (but he's got a very strong memory so not sure if he was just reeling it off by recall).

Proud papa is pretty darned happy because next to P and the wife, books have always been just about the most important thing in the world to me. Books are my crack, basically, and there's nothing quite like the smell of an old bookstore filled to the gills with mysterious old tomes. Given an afternoon to myself, there's nothing I like so much as browsing in bookstores, wild man that I have become.

I've been in bookstores from Australia to Alaska, from Montana to Mississippi, and here are three of my favorite bookstores. Just missing the list were stores like my "hometown shop" of Ames Bookstore, Grass Valley, Calif.,; Hard to Find Books right here in Auckland; City Lights Books in San Francisco; Burke's Books in Memphis, and probably a dozen more I'm forgetting.

The Strand, New York City
When I lived in Noo Yawk for three months in the summer of '94, I had little or no income, but that didn't stop me spending it on used books. The Strand boasts of itself as "18 miles of books," and it's a sprawling labryinth right outside the Village, the kind of store that wanders in and out of itself and you might find yourself in a strange alcove that hasn't been seen by other people in 10 years. Cluttered and dusty and cobwebby but full of glamourous Manhattanites, it's an ideal New York City bookstore. My poverty didn't stop me spending many a lazy Sunday there in my summer in New York. And get this – they rent books by the foot: "Interior decorators, film/television set decorators and homeowners, give us your specifications and we'll select just the right books to fit your shelf, all priced by linear foot." That's extremely New York, ain't it?

Powell's Bookstore, Portland, Oregon
If this list were numerical, Powell's would be crouched at the top, the mastodon of bookstores. It's the largest independent book store in the world – an entire Portland city block, or about seven or eight regular bookstores put together, not counting several annex stores around town. And it's justly world-famous. I remember my Dad went there in the 1980s and came back with fantastic tales of this unimaginably huge bookstore he'd been to; it took me more than a decade to make it up to Portland myself, and I was not let down. While it's not the cheapest bookstore in the world the selection is unfathomably huge (entire sections devoted to arcana like Arctic history, giant microbes, rock history or Lewis and Clark) and you can easily spend entire days browsing there until you get that glazed, what-was-I-looking-for-anyways expression on your face and have to stop for some coffee. A sure sign of its status is that this book store is one of Portland's biggest tourist attractions. Bring your wallet.

Square Books, Oxford, Mississippi
Not just a literary icon, but an honest-to-gosh center of the community, Oxford's Square Books is easily the best bookstore in the state, cozy and amiable, not gigantic, but perched right in the old-fashioned town square and with an amazing selection of Southern literature (and a used books annex right down the road when I lived there). Such a good bookstore that the owner recently became mayor of Oxford, which had to be connected; the kind of place you can recline on the balcony overlooking the town square with a cup of coffee and while the day away discussing Bukowski while you feed a secret crush on the comely girl behind the counter. Until she files a restraining order, anyway.

I like him, but I don't like like him

I found my hits spiking this morning and realized that yours truly is the #6 top Google hit for the search phrase "Obama ode lusty." This -- something to do with a risque Internet video made by a fan -- apparently is a big global news story (yep, the media standards in my profession continue to be quite high; I guess there was a break in the spell of Paris Hilton coverage).

Anyway, for the record, while I admire Mr. Obama's policies, we are just friends. Lusty friends.

Public service announcement

McSweeney's is in trouble. Facing severe financial troubles due to their distributor going bankrupt, one of the finest niche magazine and book publishers going could use some help. They're doing a gigantic sale on their web site with tons of swell books, zines and more at rock-bottom prices. (I just picked up a nice bundle of 10 of their The Believer magazines for like $15.) Go do some shopping, if you please, and support one of the more distinctive voices left out there in this age of Wal-Marts and Starbucks.

Music review: The Traveling Wilburys Collection

Pound for pound, the Traveling Wilburys contained more sheer musical genius than a Lollapalooza of lesser bands. A Beatle, a Dylan, a Heartbreaker, a legendary voice and an Electric Light Orchestrator? It sounds like rock star fantasy camp, but it was reality nearly 20 years ago now.

The combination of George Harrison, Bob Dylan, Tom Petty, Roy Orbison and Jeff Lynne made for one of the finest "supergroups" of all time. Their first album, "The Traveling Wilburys Vol. 1," and to a lesser extent, their second, teasingly labeled "Vol. 3," represent a shining high point in each of the artists' careers.

Shamefully, these discs have been out of print and fetching high prices on eBay for years now. Rhino Records has now repaired the situation by reissuing The Traveling Wilburys Collection – the Wilburys' two discs, remastered and with bonus tracks, and paired with a new retrospective DVD. All I can say is, it's about time.

The Wilburys sprang out of sessions for Harrison's 1987 comeback disc Cloud Nine. In 1988, Harrison and Lynne were putting together a B-side for the single "This Is Love" at Dylan's home studio. Roy Orbison and Tom Petty just happened to be hanging about, and the five slapped together a little song.

But the result, "Handle With Care," was far from a mere B-side – catchy, wistful, anchored by Harrison's sweet guitar solos, the crooning chorus from Orbison, Dylan popping up to blow a harmonica and croak a few lines like a subterranean oracle. It had the ramshackle feeling of a road trip anthem, the universal appeal of a forgotten classic rock tune, and it was way too good to toss away as filler. The group reconvened to record an entire album. Legend has it that "Wilburys" was coined by Harrison and Lynne during the recording of Cloud Nine as a reference to recorded "flubs" that could be eliminated during the mixing stage (as in, "'We'll bury' them in the mix").

The goofy in-jokes continued right into the album itself, where despite their pictures being on the cover, the band members took on pseudonyms as "Wilburys" – i.e. Dylan became Lucky Wilbury, and so on. Although it was a loosely organized throwaway record – written and recorded in just 10 days – the sum was greater than the solo careers of some of the men at this time.

Even Dylan, who one would imagine the least likely of the quintet to take part in such a goofy lark, seemed to have a blast – the charmingly lovelorn "Dirty World," or his "Tweeter and the Monkeyman," a rollicking Springsteen-meets-Bob parody that's light years above most of Dylan's other '80s output. Orbison hadn't had a real hit in decades, and this disc helped launch the career revival that came too late – he died suddenly at age 52 in 1988 mere months after the recording of this set. Some of his tracks here, like the lovely "Not Alone Any More," stand with the best of his work.

What was so remarkable about "Vol. 1" is that it's a "supergroup" album almost entirely lacking in pretension – just simply gorgeous, honest soundcraft, polished to a fine shine by Jeff Lynne's typically slick production. Everyone takes turns on vocals and songwriting, and the result is that no one artist pulls rank on the others. The sonic touch was also present on the Lynne-engineered albums of the time, Harrison's Cloud Nine and Petty's Full Moon Fever. In fact, both of those albums featured cameos by other Wilburys and are almost continuations of the Wilbury sound.

Sadly, Orbison died and the result was the Wilburys never quite measured up to an outstanding debut. The remaining four did regroup for 1990's follow-up. With more of that quirky Wilbury humor their second album was labeled "Vol. 3," confusing fans forevermore. "Vol. 3" unfortunately was more like what "Vol. 1" could've been – solid, but somewhat unmemorable, a lark without heft. The operatic voice of Orbison was a key part of the first record's appeal, lending a lovelorn grandeur to many of the songs. He's sorely missed. Songs like "She's My Baby" or "Wilbury Twist" are good-time rock 'n' roll, but there's something missing. The relaxed spontaneity of the first album is a little more forced here, proving that maybe you can't always repeat a winner. Still, the Wilburys never embarrassed themselves.

The reissue includes four new tracks – the benefit for Romanian orphans "Nobody's Child," as well as Vol. 3 outtakes "Maxine" and "Like A Ship," and the UK-only B-side "Runaway." The DVD features the original five charming music videos, along with a 24-minute documentary told in the group's own voices. There's a variety of editions for fans to choose from – the standard 2-CD and DVD set, a "special edition" boxed set that includes a 40-page book and more, and a vinyl set.

Even if you own one of the original rare CDs, you'll want to make the upgrade to this rewarding, long-awaited collection. There'll never be a Wilburys reunion now that George and Roy are both up at the juke box in the sky, but this is the next best thing.

Kibbles and bits, kibbles and bits

Auckland is the centre (not "center") of the universe – not only am I going to see Bob Dylan in a few months time, but this coming weekend, I get to attend a rockin' show by none other than His Holiness The Dalai Lama, who's speaking in New Zealand (and, OK, not rocking). My experience with Buddhism pretty much stops and starts with "The Tao Of Pooh," but at a mere $20 a pop for tickets it seemed like an event not to pass up and sure to be interesting. Everyone into the mantra pit!

• For those three die-hard fans I have out there, you can check out my latest freelance piece for The New Zealand Herald over here, a profile of the New Zealand Sponsorship Agency.

• Also of interest might be my brief look at the new Motown Number Ones records over at my other online haunt, BlogCritics.

• The rainy season has begun. Weather is cold and gray. But the season one finale of "Heroes" finally airs here tonight, and I've studiously attempted to avoid all spoilers as to what happens (it's a drag when you're anywhere from a few weeks to a few months behind on most U.S. shows). All I know is, that spunky cheerleader better save the day!