The impenetrable fifth cinema in the franchise demonstrates that chairman Michael Bay has run out of ideas

I would hazard a guess that Michael Bay would sooner lose his own testicles than hand over the controls of the Transformers dealership. In happening, given the swilling testosterone that sloshes around these duelling space robot movies, the two are perhaps inextricably linked. Bay has effectively been brandishing his balls in our faces for five cinemas now. But rendered this latest blitzkrieg of blah, it seems best available act who are able to happen to this serial would be a brand-new chairman, with ideas and, ideally, a pas friendship with storytelling. That, or entrust the whole metal mess to the scrapheap.

Despite the fact that Bay employs his usual proficiency of having characters shout descriptions of what happens on the screen( sample exchange: Oh my God, look at that, its a big alien ship !), the scheme is a vehicle gate-crash of impassable stupidity. This storey hitches a raise on Arthurian mythology and chows in some Dan Brown-style ancient artefact peril, before descending into the usual bludgeoning effects-laden climax. Mark Wahlberg returns as autobot wrangler Cade Yaeger; new adds-on to the cast include Anthony Hopkins( eccentric aristo with a ninja robot butler) and Laura Haddock, playing Vivian Wembley, an Oxford history professor. Perhaps “youve got to be” huffing petrol vapours( or whatever it is that the autobots run on) but 149 hours have rarely felt so interminable.


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