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TRANSFORMERS (Dir. Michael Bay)
I've been feeling ill recently. 'Under the weather', as those of you who don't want to make things obvious may put it. But Michael Bay loves making things obvious. It's totally his favourite thing to do, like, ever. He makes things so bloody obvious that you practically wonder why he's pointing them out at all. Let's take an example: in his 2007 film Transformers, one of the 'Autobots' is a poorly disguised, almost offensive Afro-American stereotype, fo' shizzle. There's no doubting it. When Shia LaBeouf (probably the only person I enjoyed watching in the movie, other than that Australian girl) asks him how he learned to speak like that, he states 'the Internet'. Well, what I learnt from the internet is how to be overcritical and think I have a valid opinion, so I'll practice that here.

Transformers is an action film, yes. It's a popular film, yes. It's by no means my type of film. But I watched it all the way through. Why? Because it's an adrenalin rush of a flick, it's fast-paced and you somehow can sit through all 144 minutes of it. And yes, the Australian girl. But it's so deeply submerged in immoral, super-obvious postmodern masochism that it's hard to see its immediate virtues. I don't mean to take a feminist stance here (believe me, I'm not one), but Megan Fox is treated like shit by both LaBeouf's character and Michael Bay. It's amazing that this sort of female character is still apparent in modern cinema. Combine this with the African-American stereotype (akin to the two black passengers in Airplane, but that was 1980) and a plotline dumb enough to be comprehended by a brick with a fetish for explosions, robot sounds and oversaturated cinematography, and you have a movie set to gross $700m.

This film has no modern significance, will probably fade away in about ten years' time and will never stand as an example of anything other than 00s shit filmmaking. I'm pretty glad about that. Of course, it's silly to even discuss such a film as being on the same level as 'important cinema', but as a reviewer I'm afforded this irrelevant snobbishness so I'm going to damn well use it. The effects are good, the cinematography is exciting, and the ambition of the writers to include every 21st century American cliché possible (hot girlfriend, embarrassing parents, Chihuahua, deep-voiced wise guy, something about the president) is admirable. But it's still not a good movie. If I could say only one thing to Michael Bay (and I have many things), it would probably be "stop being so ignorant and make films that have some character development, racial decency, and emotional depth to them."

Either that or "you're an asshole."

★★☆☆☆

NOTTING HILL (Dir. Roger Mitchell)
Sometimes I wonder why I watch certain films. I wonder why I subject myself to such shit. I wonder why I take the time to sit down and spend two hours watching Hugh Grant woo Julia Roberts and, simultaneously, every girl in the cinema at the time of showing. Then I think to myself, 'I guess it's all for the greater good'. Quite what that greater good is, or will be, I don't yet know, but I bloody well hope it's worth it. Because I threw up in my mouth so many times during Notting Hill that I almost lost faith in life itself, let alone this mysterious 'greater good', and I wasn't sure whether it was harder to shake the feeling of deep regret from my conscience or the aftertaste of sick from my mouth.

Notting Hill is a Richard Curtis film, which means it'll star Hugh Grant. Herein lies the film's first and most disastrous flaw, because it means 50% of its runtime is comprised of High Grant being charming, bashful, having floppy hair, stuttering over cleverly written romantic remarks, and being endearingly adorable in that aw-isn't-he-cute-don't-you-just-want-to-take-him-home-and-keep-him-in-a-hutch kind of way. And, for some reason, Julia Roberts falls in love with him. Roberts, by far a better actor, outacts Hugh even in a film that was written for him, though she doesn't get much chance to show off within the confines of Curtis' witty, white-middle-class rom-com romp set in - no surprises here - Notting Hill, London.

At several points during Notting Hill, I will admit, I enjoyed it. Rhys Ifans plays Grant's oddball housemate, providing much-needed comic relief at times when the main character - and main plotline - are veering uncontrollably towards the sort of moment that causes the more romantically inclined viewers to stroke Hugh Grant's face. Richard Curtis is a fantastic writer - there's no denying that once you've seen Four Weddings. So, ultimately, who am I to complain about a fluffy, 90s Hugh Grant rom-com?

Yeah, exactly. You could hardly say I'm the intended audience.

 ★★☆☆☆