The director of other style-over-substance masterpieces such as “Bronson” and “Valhalla Rising” makes a neo-noir arthouse action flick that has a lot more in common with “Yojimbo” than it does with “The Fast and the Furious.” In other words, if you’re a gearhead looking for high octane, macho machine porn, look elsewhere. Well, let’s not get carried away. There is enough savage violence to satiate the callow Tarantino fanboy (not that Tarantino’s work is defined by its loyalists), if he’s willing to sit through a more European, or Sofia Coppola-esque if you like, interpretation of the classic badass myth.

Ryan Gosling plays The Driver, a semi-modernized version of Clint Eastwood’s Man With No Name, a direct outgrowth from the films of Akira Kurosawa. The Driver is quiet, brooding, smart and brutally just. He’s so quiet, in fact, he could probably pass as autistic, though his smoothness with the ladies lessens the effect. During the day, he drives for the movies. During the night, he drives for anyone who’ll hire him — usually criminals looking for a getaway driver. The money is good, but, naturally, he’s in it for the thrill. After killing a few mob foot soldiers in the aftermath of the a job gone bad, The Driver finds himself in a pickle. His cold brutality, superhero abilities and underlying humanity are his only means of survival.

“Drive” is a strange little picture. It’s cheap, but looks fantastic. It’s drenched in 1980s nostalgia, but feels like a 1990s crime thriller. It’s trailer feels like a mechanical 2000s explosion-fest, but the film itself feels like a criticism of that trend. It feels heartless and amoral, but features touching moments of genuine humanity. In all it’s contradictions, derivations and conceits, it manages to find a nugget of originality, which Refn pinches, molds and polishes into a picture of cinematic vitality. Over the last decade, television, with original dramas like “Mad Men,” “The Sopranos,” “The Wire,” and “Breaking Bad,” has slowly been stealing cinema’s thunder. While the big screen seems unable to satisfy anyone other than fanboy teenagers these days, television has been telling the kind of serious, adult stories once only available in films. “Drive” proves that there are still some things you can only find in a darkened theater.

John Boyega leads a street gang of alien-killers in "Attack the Block"

It’s Guy Fawkes Night, and the South London sky is pulsing with brilliant explosions. In the midst of the celebration, Sam (Jodie Whittaker) is mugged at knife-point by a gang of teen hoodlums. Before they get away with their meager take, however, a flaming object smashes into a nearby car. Moses (John Boyega), the gang’s leader, looks for valuables amidst the wreckage rather than investigating its cause. He’s greeted by a nasty little ball of white fur and teeth, which the gang promptly kills. Soon thereafter dozens more flaming projectiles fill the sky, which arouse in the hoods uncontrollable excitement at the prospect of an intergalactic rumble.

“Attack the Block” is a movie made by people who love movies. First-time director Joe Cornish, with help from Big Talk Prods. (“Shaun of the Dead,” “Hot Fuzz”) assembles a collection of monster movie, coming-of-age and action flick tropes into a seamless, original work of modern cinema, with equal parts subversive social perceptiveness, indie wit and Hollywood bombast. It’s as if Steven Spielberg, Spike Lee, Quentin Tarantino, Richard Donner, Danny Boyle and John Carpenter got together and decided to create a balanced blend of their respective sensibilities.

The pace is blistering, the humor is tack sharp and the action is clear and exciting. But, the feature that gives “Attack the Block” the advantage over even the best monster flicks of recent years is its creature design. Hairless, slimy, tentacled creatures of the invertebrate variety are a well-worn style. Repulsive insectoid aliens, like those in “District 9,” are also becoming a little tired. Instead, Cornish and his design team have opted for radical simplicity. Deep black fur, an ape-like gait and rows of glowing teeth are about the only distinguishing features of the invaders. This ingenious design feels instantly iconic, and, what’s more, aptly represents the film’s lurking subtext.

Hitting theaters in the wake of London’s recent riots, “Attack the Block” couldn’t have come at a better time. The film’s heroes are the same disillusioned youths accused of instigating the mayhem that brought large swaths of the city to its knees last month. They are the first villains of the film, that is, until an even greater evil falls from the sky. It seems clear that the black, purposeless aliens, bent only on destruction, are meant to symbolize the way in which England’s upper classes, even further removed from the proletariat than in America, view the lower classes. That the invasion is limited to only a few city blocks, and that police are generally oblivious to it, seems to confirm this. And by giving our hoodlums a purpose and a powerful foil, Cornish, without condoning it, helps us understand their misdeeds; a key moment being when Sam finally joins her assailants’ anti-alien attack squad. She presses them on why they would rob a defenseless nurse on her way home from work. They respond by saying they wouldn’t have done it if they had known she lived in the same building that they do. With that 15 seconds of dialogue Cornish elucidates England’s congenital subterranean class warfare, and allows us to root for whom we earlier dismissed as street thugs.

But, for most people, “Attack the Block” will be seen as nothing more than a fantastically entertaining B-movie-style monster flick. And considering how well it does that, everything else is just icing on the cake.

Paul Bettany as the ass-kicking, vampire-slaying "Priest"

Critics can be a fickle bunch. Lavishing this, lambasting that. But with most films it’s relatively easy to predict the critical response. Originality, cohesiveness, perky dialogue and fleshed out characters get the O.K. Convoluted stories, dull characters and shameless wish-fulfillment fantasies are blasted. But since “Jaws” gave birth to the summer blockbuster in 1975, and that genre’s integration with B movie and exploitation sensibilities thereafter, schools of critical thought have diverged radically.

Such is how Justin Lin’s “Fast Five,” a stupid, stupid movie featuring the worst performance of the year, via Paul Walker, can charm critics with its gleeful inanity, but Scott Stewart’s silly but visually interesting “Priest” is readily dismissed with a faint, collective, critical shrug.

Considering their altogether different cinematic aim from serious artistic efforts, should we subject B movies and summer blockbusters to the same scrutiny? Modern critical theory says no. So do I. But the wild inconsistency in the evaluation of these films is baffling. “Priest” is the superior film artistically, and more successful in pandering to its intended audience.

Paul Bettany (“A Beautiful Mind,” “Legion”) is the titular “Priest,” one of a superhuman race of pious vampire-slaying warriors — a less mystical, but more overtly religious version of the Jedi in “Star Wars.” He lives in a muddled future world mash-up of Western, sci-fi, medieval and fantasy elements. With the help of his kind, humans have ostensibly won the ancient battle against savage, eyeless vampires. That is, until a half-priest, half-vampire, all cowboy super villain (Karl Urban) kidnaps a rural family’s daughter to bait Priest into embarking on a reckless rescue mission.

If you’ve seen John Ford’s 1956 Western classic “The Searchers” you know the story already. In fact, if you’ve seen a movie before, you should have no trouble predicting every plot turn. But “Priest,” which is an adaptation of a Korean graphic novel and revels in genre cliché, isn’t about originality. It’s about interesting landscapes, badass heroes fighting badass villains and cool special effects. All of which it delivers. And despite the silly dialogue and sometimes unbearable melodrama, it more than fulfills the measure of its creation. It even dares, albeit briefly and without much sophistication, to question the rationality of theocratic government. Good luck finding that in a “Fast” movie.

“Priest” is a B movie through and through. It’s got cheap thrills, train fights, beheadings, a Bible full of throwing stars and a cowboy-vampire-priest. What more could you possibly want?

Saoirse Ronan with a blood-spattered face in "Hanna"

Up-and-coming auteur Rian Johnson recently tweeted, “The filmmaking in Hanna was pretty humbling.” That’s high praise coming from the man behind the indie caper sensation “Brick” and the quirky con flick “The Brothers Bloom.” But high praise is old hat for “Hanna” director Joe Wright who’s used to being gushed over by cinephiles. The minutes-long Dunkirk beach tracking shot in “Atonement” practically sent movie geeks into heat. But with “Hanna” Wright deliberately sheds his austere period-piece elegance and opts for a more modern, frenetic style of showing off.

Hanna (Saoirse Ronan) is a 16-year-old super-soldier who lives in a cabin deep in Finland’s icy forests with her father Erik (Eric Bana). Trained in martial arts, literature, language and mathematics since she was a small child, Hanna has been forged into one of the most skilled and vicious assassins in the world, though, she doesn’t really know why. And her father, a former government agent-turned fugitive, isn’t too keen on telling her the whole story. She knows only that she must kill CIA agent Marissa Wiegler (Cate Blanchett) to avenge the death of her mother. When Hanna finally feels her training is complete, she pushes a red button that alerts the CIA of her location. And the bloodsport begins.

“Hanna” is a fresh, exhilarating take on the revenge thriller. It’s a fast-paced chase movie with fantastic action choreography, a compelling and humanistic script and engaging performances. Wright even manages to slip in a few legitimate insights into the psychology of a directionless teenage girl. This is the movie “Sucker Punch” director Zack Snyder wishes he were capable of making.

The cast is rounded out by strong supporting players, notably Tom Hollander, who plays a deliciously loathsome contract killer employed by Wiegler. Blanchett, however, is the film’s lone dull spot. Her usually commanding presence is curiously absent. She feels out of place in a role that seems more suited for someone like Tilda Swinton. But a miscast central villain isn’t enough to derail the sheer thrill of this hard-hitting flick.

And underneath it all, crashing and spiking its way onto our eardrums, is the terrific score by British digi-musicians The Chemical Brothers. The duo’s industrial electronica soundtrack scoffs at traditional cinema sound cues and bullies its way into the spotlight. And it’s exactly the kind of overbearing, disorienting collage of sound “Hanna” needs.

Jokes about Hollywood’s increasing tendency to recycle old ideas in the form of reboots, remakes, sequels and prequels are more commonplace than ever. But “Hanna” is one of the few faces brave enough to stand out in the crowd.

If “Monsters” is any indication, first-time director, Gareth Edwards, will be dazzling audiences for years to come. Shot on less than a shoestring budget, with a cast and crew totaling only five, Edwards managed to create a fully realized post-alien invasion world more believable than the one in “District 9,” and more emotionally mature than many of Hollywood’s so-called Oscar-bait dramas.

The story kicks off six years after embryonic samples of a race of giant cephalopodic aliens were brought back to earth by a NASA probe from somewhere in our solar system.  The probe crash landed in Central America and the samples began to reproduce and take over the larger part of Mexico.  US and Mexican military forces were able to contain the rapidly spawning invaders in a quarantined area just south of the US border known as the Infected Zone.

Andrew (Scoot McNairy), an American photojournalist in Mexico, is called upon to escort his boss’s daughter Samantha (Whitney Able) back home to America.  After their several attempts to buy their safe passage home by way of ferry are foiled, the pair is forced to make the long and dangerous trek on land through the Infected Zone.

Bucking the troubling trend of increasingly video game-like movies, Edwards supplants first-person shooter carnage with meandering calmness. The menacing creatures are gargantuan — several stories tall — but are rarely seen. Violence is encountered sparingly and is treated with seriousness. The threat of violence, however, bleeds through every frame with a chilling effect.

Just beneath the artfully crafted central relationship is a poignant and timely commentary on the absurdity that is America’s immigration policy. Edwards aggressively attacks human irrationality and the plaguing frailty that leads us to be so frightened of “the other.”

If there is a weakness in this gorgeous little film it lies in the performances.  McNairy and Able have little chemistry and don’t quite possess the chops to deliver some of the film’s more weighty lines.  But Edwards and his team do everything else so well it’s easy forgive minor imperfections.

It’s not often that a debut film is this controlled, intelligent and measured, making this director’s outlook more than promising.

Thanks to Danny Boyle, mountaineering has just been gifted the greatest training video of them all, and it’s called “127 Hours.” Feel like a tough guy? Don’t think you need to tell anybody where you’re going? Don’t feel like a sturdy, sharpened pocket knife is a necessity? Alright, tough guy, go ahead watch this movie. One wrong step and you could be trapped at the bottom of an isolated crevasse in Southern Utah for five days, drinking your own piss and cutting your own fucking arm off with a dull knife. How’s that for motivation?  Show this to your scout troop before a big hike and you’ll never hear another groan about the buddy system, guaranteed.

If  you read a newspaper or turned on a TV in 2003, you probably know the story.  Aron Ralston, an amateur hiker and mountaineering enthusiast was hiking alone in Utah’s gorgeous Blue John Canyon near Moab when a large boulder became dislodged and pinned his right arm against the wall of a deep crevasse. A resourceful mechanical engineering graduate of Carnegie Mellon University and an experienced mountaineer, Ralston devised dozens of clever concepts involving levers and pulleys to help him escape with his arm intact. When nothing worked he resigned himself to a slow, horrible  death, and recorded his final goodbyes on his video camera, and even carved his name, birth date and presumed death date on the canyon wall.  But he didn’t die.  Instead, he decided to do the unthinkable.  Ralston broke both bones in his forearm and then cut through the soft tissue with his dull, imitation multi-tool.

Ralston’s story is among the most remarkable, stomach-turning and inspiring human stories of the past decade — an unbelievable triumph of will.  But in these qualities also lies Boyle’s biggest challenge.  How do you retell a one act story with a single character through a feature-length medium better suited to multiple acts with meaningful human interaction?  And with a true story inherently brimming with drama, is reenacting it for the big screen really necessary? or even a good idea?  The answer to both questions is simple: yes, as long as Danny Boyle and James Franco are involved.  Granted, Ralston’s own documentation and recounting of those unimaginably hellish five days probably carries more dramatic weight, but Boyle’s kinetic fictionalization coupled with Franco’s harrowing performance are sure to make a lasting impression.

So just how does Boyle fill 94 minutes with a single character trapped in a single location?  The amputation seen is long and graphic, apparently causing a sweep of faintings across the country, but it still occupies only a  fraction of the overall runtime.  The rest of the film is a beautiful blend of frenetic split-screen effects, representations of Ralston’s delusions/hallucinations/visions, inner dialogue, gripping pathos and fruitless problem solving episodes, all serving a recurring theme in Boyle’s work — fate.  But whereas Boyle romanticized the idea of destiny in “Slumdog Millionaire,” he returns to reality with “127 Hours.”  The director is committed to capturing and realizing every detail of Ralston’s ordeal — physical, emotional and primal — through a dizzying filming technique that mimics the panic and claustrophobia of his character’s situation.

And though it occasionally feels overcooked with relentless post-production meddling and synthesizer punch-ups on the soundtrack, “127 Hours” remains admirably dedicated to its message of perseverance, human connection and the glory of life in the face of certain death.

Just remember this: always tell somebody where you’re going, and for God’s sake, take a cell phone!

Bruce Willis, Helen Mirren, John Malkovich and Morgan Freeman once constituted the CIA’s most skilled and prolific death squad (yes, Dame Helen Mirren wielding a machine gun is as awesome as it looks) but have since retired to benign civilianhood.  Retirement’s dearth of adrenaline-fueled assassinations, car chases and shootouts has forced the former black-ops agents to create excitement anywhere they can.  Willis tears up his pension checks as they come giving him an excuse to talk to the pretty girl (Mary-Louise Parker) at the pension fund office.  Freeman, now in an old folks’ home, fakes a malfunction in his TV set so he can scope out the nurse’s curves while she tries to fix it.  And Malkovich, suffering from government-induced LSD side-effects, is permanently paranoid and perpetually making note of the smallest changes in his environment, while Mirren does her best Martha Stewart impersonation deflecting any inquiries that may reveal her bloody past.

Trouble is, these pasteurized heroes of Hollywood past hold a lot of classified information in their aging brains.  Some of it which may be incriminating of nasty people in powerful positions.  So when Willis is ambushed in the dead of night and barraged by a D-Day worthy flurry of bullets he slides effortlessly back into his super spy shoes, rounds up the old team and brings the full fury of 1980s espionage action movies to the doorstep of the offending party.

Almost nothing in “RED” is even in the ballpark of believable.  Plot holes, timing inconsistencies and physical impossibilities abound.  It’s better that way.  But more importantly, witty dialogue, winning performances and the best action set pieces this side of “Inception” make “RED” better than just about any piece of entertaining fluff you’ll see this season.

Beyond the one-liners and sight gags, “RED” sports some surprisingly prescient subtext directed at the growing fanboy culture flooding the mainstream.  The fact that “RED” is based on a comic book legitimizes the growing trend, albeit begrudgingly.  But constant references to the ages of its stars and the prevailing defiant attitude of our heroes seems to be saying something like, “Yeah, you geeks rule the box office now, but don’t get too cocky or we’ll kick your asses.”

“RED” represents not a true changing of the guard, but a tepid acknowledgment of the shifting zeitgeist masked by a rip-roaring, espionage melee.

The opening sequence is a tragic prelude establishing both Steven Seagal as a slimy criminal kingpin and Machete as a brutally violent and highly skilled swordsman — er, macheteman.  Cut to Machete, anonymously mingling with a host of Mexican workers, most of them illegal no doubt, under the watchful eye of Immigration officer, Sartana, played as poorly as you might expect by Jessica Alba.  Machete is singled-out by the mysterious Booth (Jeff Fahey) who taps the gruff, altruistic vigilante to assassinate the controversial Sen. McLaughlin (Robert De Niro).  McLaughlin is running on an anti-immigration anti-Mexican platform, so it only seems logical to Booth that Machete would be eager to eliminate the racist, gun-totin’ cowboy senator.

Turns out it was all a setup.  Booth is actually one of McLaughlin’s henchman cooking up a plan to get the senator reelected.  Naturally, this doesn’t sit too well with Machete.  The result: people die.  Lots and lots of people die, brutally, disgustingly, hilariously.

“Machete” is an extension of the general grindhouse revival spearheaded by exploitation fanboys Robert Rodriguez and Quentin Tarantino.  Their 2007 double-feature “Grindhouse,” a scratched and tattered slice of pure Americana pulp resurrection fantasy, laid the groundwork for “Machete’s” homage to absurdism.  Although “Machete” was written by Rodriquez in 1993, a fake trailer for the then non-existent film was created specifically to play with the release of “Grindhouse.”  The reception was so positive, with some reviewers even giving the “Machete” trailer higher marks than either “Planet Terror” or “Death Proof,” that the trailer was fleshed out into a full-length feature.

Rodriguez and co-director Ethan Maniquis take great care to recreate that distinctive tone, and it looks like they either recreated or even inserted scenes from the trailer directly into the film.  The directing pair walks a tight rope throughout the film, meticulously wary of falling into the trap of indulging in what they’re supposed to be satirizing.  ”Planet Terror,” Rodriguez’s half of “Grindhouse,” occasionally walks the wrong side of that line but “Machete” suffers no such fate.  The perfect pairing of a specific, well executed sensibility with the best film cast so far this year makes sure of that.

From now on, when a stuffy studio exec talks about four-quadrant appeal he’ll be referring to the inspired casting of Steven Seagal, Don Johnson, Cheech Marin and Lindsay Lohan all in the same movie.  And what’s more, Robert De Niro delivers his best performance since “Goodfellas.”  His slimy, shameless, utterly hysterical characterization of the Good Ol’ Boy, Know-nothing archetype is a joy to watch.

Roddy Piper’s fabled career spans more than three decades.  Splitting his time between the wrestling ring and the silver screen, Roddy was the Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson of his day with prominent roles in cult favorites like Robert Boris’ “Buy & Cell” (1987) and John Carpenter’s “They Live” (1988).  And, while not my favorite Piper film, “Hell Comes to Frogtown” is a perfect case study of how a film achieves cult classic status.

A film can only be as good as its storyline.  Despite significant setbacks like poor acting or an insufficient budget, a movie can still be a huge success with a powerful story that captures the imagination. On the other hand, all the best actors and special effects artists in the world can’t turn a rotten script into an Academy Award winner.  ”Hell Comes to Frogtown” is a little of both.

As the film begins, we are introduced to a post-apocalyptic wasteland. We learn that World War III has taken place, which has almost entirely destroyed the human race.  As the story progresses, we are introduced to Sam Hell (Roddy Piper) who is chained to a chair in a dark room.  He is being interrogated and beaten with glass bottles when two nurses enter the room. The interrogator is informed that Sam has impregnated a woman, which appears to be shocking news to them all.  He is taken by the nurses, who are employees of Med-Tech, and offered a new life if he will help them with a special project.  He is informed that the nuclear war eradicated over half the male population leaving the rest sterile. Apparently Sam is one of the few males left packing a “loaded weapon” and the government is desperate. He agrees to help and signs a consent form. It is only then that he is told of the rules and stipulations that come along with this assignment, chief among them that he is required to wear a chastity belt at all times to protect his now government-owned equipment.

As the film progresses, we follow Sam into the land of the “greeners,” Frogtown. He is taken there on assignment by Nurse Spangle (Sandahl Bergman) and Centinella (Cec Verrell), a tough as nails soldier tasked with protecting Sam. We come to find out that Sam’s ultimate goal is to infiltrate Frogtown, rescue enslaved human women and return to safety so that Sam can perform his “government duty.”

The group arrives in Frogtown where Sam meets an old friend named Looney Tunes. Looney informs Sam that he will be able to set up a meeting to negotiate the release of the enslaved human women, but during the meeting Spangle is taken prisoner by a Frogtown guard.  Sam is attacked and taken prisoner as well. When he wakes up he is greeted by a female frog who confesses her love for him and desire to be with him.  Sam, on the verge of giving in to her seduction (after providing a bag for her to put over her head), then remembers that Spangle is in trouble.  His new frog friend, Arabella, becomes their contact into Frogtown and offers to take Sam to Spangle.

He finds where she is being held and stumbles into a secret meeting with Commander Toty, the leader of the frog people.  Spangle is fastened to an altar surrounded by five women dancing seductively around her.  These are the women that Sam has come to save.  Standing in the way, however, is Commander Toty, who has become smitten with Spangle and intends to use her for his own pleasure.  After a struggle, Sam is able to free Spangle and the girls and make it back to their truck to escape.

Toty’s attempt to pursue them leads to a final showdown between he and Sam.  Toty is defeated, of course, and Sam and his girls head back to the truck.  Spangle says that Med-Tech owes him a lot and promises that once he finishes his assignment she can get him a few weeks off so that they can be alone.  When he finally asks what the assignment is the camera cuts to the five fertile women in the back of the truck.  He then responds that it’s true what they say; a soldier’s work is never done. They drive off into the desert as the credits roll.

To give an idea of how poor the acting in “Frogtown” is, Roddy Piper’s performance was the lone bright spot.  When you cast a professional wrestler as the star of your film, there are going to be issues.

Piper is surprisingly adept considering the little experience he had at the time and for the material he was given to work with. He was coherent and delivered his lines well with a slice of humor and charm.  His performance, while raw, was solid and his character draws the viewer into the narrative.  He manages to mold an arrogant character into someone sympathetic who we can root for.

Aside from Piper, the rest of the cast was less than notable.  Sandahl Bergman, who didn’t add much to the film other than taking up space in most scenes, was the only other cast member with redeeming qualities.

There really isn’t much to say about sound and special effect in this one. I can’t really think of a time that it seemed out of place or hurt the film progression, only because I can’t really remember any musical score at all. The sound effects are classic 80s, a perfect match for “Frogtown.”

With a half decent script, this B-movie adventure may have achieved something more.  Instead, that glaring problem took the film down, crashing and burning. Even in 1988 the post-apocalyptic narrative was tired and worn out. The writers attempted to put a new spin on it having the main character tasked with repopulating the earth, but the novelty wore off about 10 minutes in. If you love Roddy Piper, this film is definitely for you.  It’s entertaining and it’s great to see Piper as a young actor.  If you don’t like Piper or have never heard of him, don’t waste your time — it’s not even bad enough to be funny.

The movie begins with a cold open:  the “camera” casually flies us through the quiet beauties of outer space.  Planets, stars, galaxies and celestial debris float peacefully and gracefully through the great black expanse.  We gradually close in on a small Death Star-like planet bustling with all sorts of alien robotic life forms.  Suddenly, a giant spherical machine, known as Unicron, targets the planet and without warning begins to suck it in like a vacuum, crushing and destroying as it gobbles up everything in its path. The planet’s stunned inhabitants head to a spaceship to escape.  After the planet is thoroughly destroyed, the classic “Transformers” theme, performed by British glam-metal band, Lion, plays over the opening credits, which lists easily the most impressive cast of any animated feature film based on a toy.  More on that later.

After the credits, we learn that it is now 2005 — 20 years after the end of the second season, but sometime before the third season. The film was essentially made to bridge the two seasons so that fans of the show would know why their favorite characters would not be in the third season and how they had died.

We learn that the Decepticons are trying to destroy the Autobots’ planet and that the Autobots are preparing to defend it. The Autobots seem eager to attack the Decepticons but their fearless leader, Optimus Prime, informs them that they don’t yet have the requisite energy cubes to launch a full assault. He sends a ship to Autobot City to gather supplies for the imminent battle.

Not much time is wasted before the first fight occurs, which was good move considering their target market was the first generation hit by the ADHD craze.  The Decepticons attack the supply ship and kill Ironhide, Ratchet, Prowl, and Brawn. They in turn invade the earth disguised as the Autobot ship.

Hordes of Decepticon reinforcements arrive and attack Autobot city, leaving it in shambles and the remaining Autobots fearing for their lives. They call for help from Optimus Prime who, upon arriving at the scene, single handedly manhandles the entire lot of Decepticons, until all that’s left is his arch nemesis, Megatron.  After a battle of the titans, Megatron is defeated and begs for mercy, which throws Optimus off long enough for him to grab a gun.  Optimus is made to pay for his mercy with his life.  Before dying, he passes the matrix of leadership on to Ultra Magnus.

The Decepticons discard the broken in their ranks, including Megatron, into the nether regions of space.  They eventually run into Unicron who offers them new bodies and life to do his will. Megatron is rejuvenated and renamed Galvatron, and replacing Frank Welker, is now voiced by none other than Leonard Nimoy.

Unicron then consumes the moons of Cybertron, including Jazz, Bumblebee, Cliffjumper and Spike, who are rescued later.  Ultra Magnus is destroyed and Hot Rod uses the matrix to become Rodimus Prime. He becomes the leader of the Autobots and destroys Unicron while rescuing Jazz, Bumblebee, Cliffjumper and Spike.  The Autobots take control of Cybertron again and the film ends with Unicron’s head orbiting Cybertron like a satellite.  Writer Ron Friedman certainly earned his paycheck on this one.

Now, about that fantastic cast.  Nimoy’s talents are only the tip of the iceberg.  In addition to the large number of voices from the original television cast including Welker, Peter Cullen, Scatman Crothers (in his final role), John Moschitta, Jr. and Casey Kasem, a mish-mash of varied and unbelievable talent came together for this thing.  Judd Nelson, Eric Idle, that kid from “Over the Top,” Robert Stack (“Unsolved Mysteries”), Lionel Stander, Roger C. Carmel, Christopher Collins, Don Messick and last and certainly most impressive, the great Orson Welles in his final performance, all found something in “The Transformers: The Movie” worthy of their talents.  Eat your heart out Michael Bay.

The only real bone I have to pick in this department is with Blurr. I have nothing against John Moschitta, Jr., I just can’t stand his character. It is this man’s opinion that he is one of the most ridiculous and annoying characters ever created, rivaling even the despised Jar Jar Binks for top honors.

Another bright point is the now hopelessly cheesy music.  The opening scene with Lion’s earnestly rocking theme makes it almost impossible not to get excited for what’s to come.  A killer mix of nostalgia, cheese and genuinely blood-pumping 80s hair-metal is hard to ignore, especially for someone whose childhood was defined by such.  The rest of the soundtrack keeps the film moving along nicely with gems like Stan Bush’s classic “The Touch” and “Dare to be Stupid” by Weird Al Yankovic, and a handful of original pieces from Vince DiCola, including the powerful “Death of Optimus Prime.”

Wholly a product of their time, the sound effects are a fantastic time capsule of classic 1980s pop culture. From the weapons firing to the sound it makes when they transform, everything is spot on.  Those sound effects, along with the brilliant cast, irresistible soundtrack and great action, are where this film really shines.  Its only real weaknesses reside in the script’s occasionally convoluted storyline and in the missing bridges between some of the bigger set pieces. Luckily Nelson Shin, Director and Producer, was able to keep the audience drawn in primarily with that soundtrack during the slower, dryer parts of the film.

Overall, 84 minutes feels a bit too long for a “Transformers” cartoon, though a valiant effort by talented people makes “The Transformers: The Movie” more than worthy as a meaningless bit of entertainment and effective dose of nostalgia.