Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is a horrible experience of unbearable length, briefly punctuated by three or four amusing moments. One of these involves a dog-like robot humping the leg of the heroine. Such are the meager joys. If you want to save yourself the ticket price, go into the kitchen, cue up a male choir singing the music of hell, and get a kid to start banging pots and pans together. Then close your eyes and use your imagination.

So, in every state except Wyoming, North Dakota, South Dakota, and Maine, there is a building high enough that Marty McFly could have taken the innards of his DeLorean up a freight elevator and acheived the required 88 mph (40 m/s) by jumping off the roof. (Because of air resistance, I wouldn’t try it in NH/MT/ID/WV/AK/VT, either.) He just needs to leave a note at the bottom explaining that in 30 years they should set out a trampoline.

The fights and chases were as unintelligible as most such sequences are nowadays, and the usual roaming-camera formulas were applied without much variety. Shoot lots of singles, track slowly in on everybody who’s speaking, spin a circle around characters now and then, and transition to a new scene with a quick airborne shot of a cityscape.

My best friend’s sister’s boyfriend’s brother’s girlfriend heard from this guy who knows this kid who’s going with the girl who saw Ferris pass out at 31 Flavors last night. I guess it’s pretty serious.