taggering out of the latest skull-splinteringly insensitive new Transformers film, I wondered if the only way to settle the future of cinema is to set up Michael Bay, its director, with James Cameron in a fistfight. A film about such an encounter, however, could wind up looking like techno-futurist porn, of a kind that JG Ballard might have found too upsetting to consider. Perhaps Michael Bay should just get a room – with himself. He should check into the nearest Travelodge, with a set of 4x6 laminates of his new film's various gigantic toys, hardware, weaponry and black SUVs – and a bottle of baby oil. Well, this is another overlong and over-the-top action extravaganza from Bay about the cars that turn into robots