Now, in present-day Qatar, an unknown attack helicopter is heading toward a forward military base. Disregarding warnings, it lands, then suddenly morphs into something otherworldly: A giant robot, which decimates the base in no time. Only a small squadron of soldiers, including Capt. Lennox (Duhamel) and Air Force Tech Sgt. Epps (Tyrese Gibson), escapes. But not before the robot tries to tap into the base's computers and download all of its data.

In a typical American suburb, meanwhile, Sam Witwicky (LaBeouf) is a motormouth loser whose main goal is to scrape together enough money to buy a car so he can get laid. He's doing that by auctioning off his grandfather's Arctic expedition artifacts on eBay, including a pair of glasses from the turn of the century that were inexplicably etched with some kind of laser encryption long ago.

After a series of mishaps, he finds himself the owner of a weathered yellow Camaro with an odd logo on the steering wheel. The car seems to have a mind of its own, helping to engineer a meeting between Sam and the object of his unrequited lust: Mikaela (Fox), the hot girl from school.

In Washington, meanwhile, defense secretary John Keller (Voight) has marshaled his technical troops. The attack in Qatar was the precursor to some kind of bigger threat, an attempt to hack into the nation's top-secret databases. Only tech genius Maggie Madsen (Rachael Taylor) suspects it may be something more than meets the eye.

One night, Sam hears his car start up and drive away. Hopping on a bicycle, he gives chase, arriving to find his car morphing into a giant robot and beaming a signal into space. That's when the cops show up, and Sam is in more trouble than he could possibly imagine.

A kickass summer popcorn movie

Transformers, director Bay's action opus, based on a toy line (the only movie in memory that actually gets such a credit), is the kind of movie that underscores what every fanboy and costumed geek knows deep in his or her heart: Cineastes are irrelevant, critics don't matter, and studio executives don't know a thing. The only thing that matters is giant freaking robots.

Not a great movie by any stretch of the imagination, Transformers is what it is: The most kickass summer popcorn movie ever. The jokes are lame, the acting is way over the top, the plot makes no sense, there's enough military jargon to confuse Gen. Jack O'Neill, and, in spots, it feels like an extended General Motors commercial. No matter.

Transformers does what it sets out to do: Bring to life giant alien robots who can morph into sleek muscle cars in the blink of an eye and destroy entire city blocks with WWE-like smackdowns. The movie also showcases extremely attractive young men and women, glistening in sweat, firing automatic weapons as they sprint headlong through a phalanx of tumbling, exploding automobiles. What's not to love?

Key to this movie's appeal, aside from the obvious, is Bay's apparent affection for his source material. I defy anyone of a certain age not to get a frisson of glee at the first resonant notes of Optimus Prime's voice-over or his first appearance as a tricked-out truck cab—or feel a lump in his or her throat when Bumblebee is brought low by the nefarious Sector 7.

Bay is a prodigiously talented director whose chief skill seems to be destroying everything he touches. In this case, that talent is put to very good use; even for an audience member well conditioned to decades of summer demolition derbies, Transformers is something new, bigger and better, and that's no mean feat.