Thursday, July 24, 2014

Pouring One Out for My Homie

When I was a kid, transforming Jazz from car to bot seemed more complicated. [Photo credit: Rodimuspower Master of Transformers. According to his Flickr profile he's male and single. I think Steve Carell made a movie about him.]

Jazz was one of my favorite Autobots. I can barely remember, but I think I liked Optimus Prime the most. Jazz, though. Jazz was the Autobot I longed for and never could possess.

Jazz oozed cool. He looked great as a car and great as a bot. Not like Ratchet, who had a windshield for a face and transformed into an ambulance. No knock against ambulances but they don’t exactly ignite the imagination of a young boy. Not like Megatron, whose robot form gave him a giant square head, a jutting groin region with an oddly placed trigger, and weirdly shaped legs. Dat thigh gap tho. #thinspiration, amirite?

I owned Megatron, for two reasons. One, he is Optimus Prime’s adversary and I needed him to stage epic robot battles on my bed. Two, he transformed into a very real-looking Walther P-38. Look at pictures of Megatron and real Walther P-38 handguns and then take a moment to reflect on this. In 1984 you could go to a Toys R Us and buy a toy robot that transformed into a legitimate replica of a handgun with a chrome barrel and black stock, the only distinguishing feature being a purple Decepticon logo.

Kids not only could buy this toy, they could run around at school pretending to shoot their friends with it. If kids could still buy this toy, they’d have to pass a background check (how many times have you been grounded in the last 6 months?) and put Megatron in a chastity belt that transformed into a trigger lock.

I'm not the only fan who loved Jazz. Based on sales, Jazz is one of the most popular Transformers ever. So why did he have such a small role in the live action movie from 2007? He barely had any dialogue and they let Megatron kill him at the end of the movie, fulfilling the stereotype that the minority character gets it first. Sure, Bumblebee also ends up in two pieces at the end of the movie, but he survives. Cut Jazz in two and all you’re left with is a pair of oversized Cybertronian bookends.

There are signifiers of Jazz’s blackness all over. For one thing, his name is Jazz. For the original cartoon, the voice of Jazz was provided by none other than Scatman Crothers, an actual jazz man (as well as actor, comedian, guitarist, and voice-over artist). In the cartoon his language and taste in music was hipper than the rest of the Autobots. He had rhythm, apparent from his use of sound and light displays as a tool for distracting Decepticons. You would think that the clever use of chaff or explosives would be the ideal distraction, but Decepticons are programmed to expect that. A Hannah Montana concert suddenly erupting on the field of battle is something you never get used to.

Jazz isn’t the only "urban" Transformer. In the sequel, movie-goers were Al-Jolsoned by the arrival of the twins, Skids and Mudflap, the offensive pair of Autobots from Revenge of the Fallen. A lot of people were offended by these robots because they are obviously racist caricatures. But clearly, the invocation of minstrelsy here is intended to compare the plight of the Autobots, who fled their home planet to escape the Decepticons’ genocidal intentions, with the struggle of American blacks for civil rights and prosperity in a nation whose founding text defines them as less than fully human.

Nah, I’m kidding. That shit is just full on racist. Bay should never have allowed the editor to cut the scene where Mudflap wore absurdly oversized lips and sang "Mammy." I'm surprised the first shot of Skids wasn't of him doing the electric boogaloo after Maury Povich told him that "you are not the father."

Although I don’t know how Cybertronians procreate. The only Transformer that may have been a woman was the robot that transformed into a human female to seduce Sam.

As an aside, if the Transformers could transform into people this whole time, why do they bother disguising themselves as jets and trucks? As an aside from that aside, couldn’t she have just shot Sam with a small snub nosed revolver and solved a lot of the Decepticons’ problems? As another aside, is it a surprise that the only non-male Transformer is a seduction-bot? We should be praising Michael Bay that she wasn’t disguised as a beer-dispensing vagina. This is a Michael Bay movie we’re talking about. If he could cast just body parts nobody would know what Megan Fox’s face looks like.

(Actually, there are some female Autobots. The Arcee triplets. Typical of a Michael Bay film, they don’t speak.

Then they die off-screen.)

According to the lore, in spite of the fact that Transformers are autonomous robots, every Transformer has something called a "spark." It’s their life force. Their soul. If a transformer sustains too much damage, their spark leaves their body and they die. No amount of repair will restore it to life. That helps explain why it was possible to kill Jazz. EXCEPT that in the second movie we find out that there’s something called the Matrix of Leadership that has the power to resurrect any non-ethnic transformer. Sorry, Jazz. I guess you were too black for anyone to bother resurrecting you in the second movie, even though Prime hangs onto the Matrix and resurrects Sentinel Prime in the third one.

What happened to Jazz’s body, anyway? Maybe they didn’t resurrect him because they misplaced him somewhere. I ask because after Prime hands Megatron’s ass to him at the end of the first movie, you would think that would be the end of Megatron.

But no. It turns out the US military decided to stash him at the bottom of the ocean like Jason at the end of Friday the 13th part 6. I assumed that the Autobots would have found the biggest volcano on Earth and made Decepticon fondue. If they didn’t want to go that route, perhaps they could have broken him down for spare parts or let the military reverse engineer him. Whatever it was they did with him, I assumed they would make sure the son-of-a-bitch was good and dead. But that’s not how Michael Bay movies work.

Instead, the US Military, taking a nod from the practice of water-boarding, concocted some kind of elaborate "rust torture." They spent millions of dollars to chain Megatron to the seabed somewhere in the middle of the ocean. Then, to make sure nothing happened to him, they left three guys with water wings and pool noodles guarding him so that the sharks would have something to eat after the Decepticons inevitably went to retrieve him.

It’s too bad that Laserbeak wasn’t in Revenge of the Fallen. One of his shits could have transformed into a jalepeno with a light saber and wiped all of them out. (Excuse me. I meant energon saber.)

For whatever reason, the Transformers, these robotic embodiments of true non-organic intelligence, seem to be entirely unaware of their advantages as robots. Don’t they have programming? Aren’t their personalities essentially algorithms? Can’t they just upload themselves into a workstation until a new body is ready? Haven’t they heard of the cloud? Do they not have WiFi?

I have a wireless router. I can upload things to my blog when I’m on the toilet. All the Decepticons had to do was get Megatron to a Starbucks and buy a Frappuccino and Megatron could have been uploaded into Asimo until a new, more resilient, more agile body was constructed. And until then, Asimo would have been the meanest, most megalomaniacal dancing robot the Japanese ever saw. Eventually he’d fight Godzilla.

If Megatron didn’t like that option, he could have hacked one of the Autobots. Or made multiple copies of himself and hacked all of the Autobots. Come to think of it, why do they bother shooting at each other when they have all of these other delicious alternatives? The live action movie could have lasted about 15 minutes. Transformers show up on Earth, some 8-year-old Chinese kids hack them, and they use them to get all the candy they want because they’re 8 and they don’t know shit about geopolitics.

In spite of the ability to avoid the frailties of mortality, they embrace them. If the fact that Jetfire gets around on a cane is any indication, they even decide at a certain point to get osteoporosis in a world where humans have already invented Boniva. In other words, these robots are fucking dumb. If the war never started and Cybertronian society had continued to develop unimpeded, the Transformers probably would have invented robot dementia, robot HIV, and robot pedobear. (Who would transform into a van.) I guess what I’m saying is that the Transformers, as a race, aren’t terribly visionary.

For instance, why do they fire bullets? And miss? They should never miss. We can send a signal from Washington DC to launch a missile from a submarine off the coast of Yemen that will thread the needle through a half-open window in Iraq and knock the toupee off of a bald guy’s head and leave no trace except for a little sunburn on his scalp, but an advanced race of sentient robots who traversed space all the way from their dying planet, landed on Earth, scanned our vehicles and through a series of complex algorithms deduced how to reconstruct themselves so that they could fold up to look like cars and jets, can’t nail a target at 50 yards with a projectile the size of Jetfire’s enlarged prostate?

Why not have guided projectiles? Or lasers. Laser beams obviously travel at light speed, making such weapons nearly impossible to dodge. So why not just have them fire laser beams like they did in the cartoon?

And don’t you dare say "realism."

Tuesday, July 08, 2014

Being Helpful

Usually you have the stroke after eating fast food.

Jack-in-the-Box commercials haven't been all that funny the last few years so I figured I'd be charitable and give them some suggestions about how to improve one of their latest ads, "Training Video."

First, they should just cut everything after the customer's head explodes.

Second, I think we all want the narrative to have some closure. That's why I suggest that the final shot of the commercial should be of the cashier. Her face and chest should be copiously confettied and she should be screaming in ego-shattering terror, hands futiley upturned, densely dappled by shards of cerebral euphemism.

That will sell some damn cheeseburgers.

Your move, Mr. Box.