Guilty pleasure my ass. Michael Bay is a goddamned genius. He’s our generation’s Cecil B. DeMille. He’s honesty in a sea of artifice. He’s Spielberg without the soppy, hanky-wringing pretension, Lucas without the disdain for his fans, Cameron without the self-importance. Michael Bay doesn’t give a shit about critics or nuance or history or physics or any such nonsense. Michael Bay only cares about one thing. You. That’s right. Michael Bay loves you. Michael Bay wants you to be happy. Michael Bay knows that going to a movie is entering into an agreement: you pay $35.00 for a ticket and a bucket of popcorn and a Coke, you expect something in return. When you go to a Terrence Malick movie, you expect sweeping, lucid cinematography, meditative themes on the human condition, and whispered voiceovers. When you go to a Michael Bay movie, you expect to see a Michael Bay Movie. Michael Bay knows only one thing. Michael Bay knows how to make a Michael Bay Movie. (J.J. Abrams? Michael Bay with lens flares.) Michael Bay knows that you know that his movies are Michael Bay Movies, nothing more, nothing less, and when you plunk down your hard-earned cash to see a movie by Michael Bay, by God, Michael Bay is going to give you a Michael Bay Movie.
The truth sets us free. And the truth is this: we want to see guys in wingsuits jumping out of Osprey helo-planes, dodging fire from giant robots.
The truth: we want Alec Baldwin giving us a happy ending to the Pearl Harbor attack.
The truth: we want helicopters flying into/out of the sunset, in slow motion. Just like we see them in our dreams.
Guilty pleasure? When I’m in the mood for a hamburger, should I feel guilty about not going to McDonald’s, but instead going to In ‘N Out Burger and ordering a 4×4 with extra grilled onions (Animal Style, of course)? No, because when I want a hamburger, I want a hamburger. The complaint about Bay is that Bay throws everything and the kitchen sink at the cameras, but when was the last time you heard someone make a Deep Impact reference? (“Better get another six-pack of Ensure, honey – Wolf-Beiderman’s comin’!”) No, I don’t feel guilty about wanting spectacle, pushed to batshit crazy levels, any more than my parents did when they watched The Ten Commandments back in the day. (Seriously, watch that movie and compare it to Armageddon. The parallels are undeniable – scenery-chewing performances, a near total disregard for historical/scientific accuracy, and thousands of innocents dying in horrific ways thanks to Nature Gone Crazy). Look, I like a good character-driven drama as much as the next guy; movies that rise to the level of great literature are rare, and that is a shame. But Michael Bay knows what he likes, he knows what most of us like, and he delivers, never trying to be someone he’s not. (Looking at you, George Lucas, with your midichlorians and your “taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems”. And take away the flying limbs and fountains of gore, and Saving Private Ryan is every World War II movie made in the 1950′s.) A Minimalist Transformers movie? My Dinner With Optimus? No thanks. Life is short, after all. Just ask Harry Stamper.
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