As I scanned over Mike’s review of Michael Bay’s new — for lack of a better term — “film,” I lingered on his opening statement: “I am determined to give a straight up review of this film.” To him I ask, “Why?” Why should we treat this movie with a respect it never shows us? Well, I shan’t begrudge Mike for his effort, as I gave a stab at writing a serious(-ish) review for my school paper, an expanded version of which can be found on my blog here (shameless!). I suppose I should have been better prepared for this: I by no means loathed the first Transformers, but I was certainly bored stiff by its over-complicated yet skin deep plot, its wooden acting and confusing mish-mash of fighting robots indiscernible from one another. It favored its juvenile humor too much and the animation needed to be clearer, but there was conceivably a decent popcorn flick deep inside that, and guiding hands like executive producer Steven Spielberg could bring out the positive aspects buried within. Now, imagine the absolute opposite of that, and you’ve got this mess.

Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is a film whose most ardent admirers — of whom there is a tragically high number — insist should be accepted for what it is, not some trumped up wannabe critic’s notion of what is should have been. What they fail to grasp is that people like me and the vast majority of honest-to-goodness critics who are paid for their work did accept this movie for what it was: a piece of shit.

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Hello, all. I’ve been away for some time, both due to an influx of schoolwork and just being to damn poor to support a budding comics habit. But I have been keeping up with my comic book adaptations, which in many ways is more unfortunate than suffering from a broken economy. Many Americans have flocked to the cineplexes in these hard times, as they always do, looking for a bit of escape from a harsh world. Yet when I sat through Watchmen at a midnight screening in March, I was suddenly reminded of how good I have it. Not because of the stark dystopia and the amoral wasteland it depicted, but because it so thoroughly missed the point that I was looking forward to getting back to my world of scraping together money to try to stay in school, pay the rent and feed myself, all while trying to land some sort of job. Synder’s screwed-pooch enraged me so much that, after I wrote a review for my school paper and came here to make my triumphant return with a more fleshed-out (papers have word limits, you know) takedown of why the film so completely let me down. Suffice to say: it knew the steps but not the rhythm, and so it lurched about like a wino with an inner ear infection, occasionally careening into the right tone but too often gazing at the inside of its navel by shoving its head up its ass (to mix metaphors poorly). But never mind that dismal failure, because I’m here to discuss the latest comic book extravaganza, the summer-starting X-Men Origins: Wolverine.
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When I first heard that Marvel would be combining two of my favorite series, the Civil War and House of M, I nearly died with excitement. When I found out it wasn’t really the Civil War, but rather the origins of the House of M, I was a little confused, but still eager to get my hands on it. I’d never really been a huge fan of the X-Men and the other mutants, but their rise to power in the Scarlet Witch’s alternate universe had easily captivated me.

So a little late on my monthly visits to the comic book shop, I picked up both the first and second issue of this series and immediately started off toward home, ready to read them back to back. So, imagine my surprise that what I found between the covers was not an interesting origins tale of one of the greatest events in Marvel history, but rather a half-assed piece of crap with cheesy story telling and lazy art.

Before you blow me off as crazy House of M fans, read the rest of my review after the break.

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