Dear Michael Bay

Dear Michael Bay,

Now, I take it for granted that a few dicks are going to be sucked when a Hollywood summer blockbuster blows its big lusty load into our eye sockets come July. That's completely in order. I didn't expect Transformers 4 to be an honest, gritty, articulate expression of the intrinsic existential angst that resides at the core of the human experience.

I'm not some self-righteous Pollyanna crying out for artistic and moral purity in a realpolitik world I'll never truly understand, looking through solipsistic, rose-colored glasses of my own naive manufacture. I'm not one of those hipsters that whines day in and day out about corporations and government and capitalism.

I get how it works. You've got to throw the studio execs a few mass-appeal bones every once in a while in exchange for funding for the stuff you really want to do. That certainly seems to explain Steven Spielberg's bipolar filmography. But Mike... you're sell-out shit/good movie ratio is getting dangerously high. Aside from The Island, Armageddon, and The Rock, everything you've directed has pretty much sucked a dick. And what's perhaps even more disconcerting, I'm starting to worry that you're running out of cocks to pleasure. It's not just about the quantity of shitty blockbusters you make, but also just how many poles each blockbuster slobbers. This time, you've finally gone a blowjob too far.

That's a robot riding a robot dinosaur.
I wasn't expecting a lot.

I did expect this pandering, oral rod riding to at least be executed in a professional manner. Instead I entered the theater to find Mark Wahlberg unabashedly using his Boston accent to play a Texan, in deliberate defiance of all semblance of reality. Every butchered vowel out of Marky Mark's mouth was like a slap to the face declaring, "I'm ruining the verisimilitude of this film for no reason." And speaking of Wahlberg, he looked like he'd been jamming steroids into his ass for at least a year before filming began, yet we received not a single shirtless scene in almost three dreary hours of film. What's the point of starring a beefcake if we don't get so much as five steamy seconds in the shower to admire his bulging pecs? And the same goes for the farmer's daughter. You cast a blazing hot Nicola Peltz, begin filming four months after she turns eighteen, flounce her around on screen in daisy dukes, and you can't deliver so much as a side boob? And then there's the profound lack of profanity, which easily could have been squeezed into a PG-13 movie; I didn't go to Transformers for the verisimilitude, but I at least want to hear someone scream "Holy Fuck" once in a while when a robot razes a city block. And virtually no innocent bystanders killed? I can only assume that parental dick was being serviced in an attempt to bring every last seven-year-old into the theater.

I expected the dialogue to slurp jizz and then gurgle before swallowing, but writer and accessory to the crime, Ehren Kruger, couldn't even live up to those abysmal expectations. Exhibit A-

"I'm a bad ass warrior robot," says a robot while shooting three guns at once in mid-somersault. Expository dialogue is one thing, but here you're redundantly telling me something I am actually seeing with my own eyes. Was this a movie for the blind?

And Ehren just keeps dropping gems the whole movie long-

"When you look up at the stars, imagine one of them is my soul." Will do, Optimus Prime. That's exactly what I'll do.

Kruger saves the best for last-

"There are mysteries to the universe we were never meant to solve, but who we are and why we are here, are not among them. Those answers we carry inside. I am Optimus Prime, and this message is to my Creators. Leave planet Earth alone. Cause I'm coming for you." Nice meaningless non-sequitur, Ehren. And not leaving planet Earth alone would be the perfect thing to do while Optimus Prime is coming for me, "cause" THAT'S WHEN HE'S NOT THERE TO STOP ME.

I understand that product placement is a big part of any sloppy knob bobbing, but Transformers 4 didn't place products into scenes, they placed superfluous scenes around products. Three second transitions as the camera zooms into the GMC badge on the front of an SUV. At one point a Bud Light delivery truck explodes, resulting in a cascade of shiny, new aluminum Bud Light bottles onto the street. Mark Wahlberg winds up on top of the pile of Bud Lights. Mark says something meant to be snarky to a panicky extra, pops open a Bud Light, takes a manly swig and tosses the rest into the remains of a wrecked car. Thirty seconds later a city bus with a wheel-to-roof Victoria's Secret ad slides to a stop in front of the camera. Notable pause before they explode it.

And the sausage slurping didn't stop with commercial goods and services. Transformers 4 isn't the first blockbuster to shamelessly pander to the Chinese market, but T4 takes it one schlong further. When the bad guys attack the special administrative region and hot spot of political unrest, Hong Kong, the guards on watch cry out to no one in particular, "We must call the central government for support!" ... as you do. Several scenes later PRC officials in Beijing are declaring that they will defend Hong Kong at all costs. And then nothing related to that "plot point" happens for the rest of the movie, because in retrospect it turns out it wasn't actually a plot point at all. It was a little piece of propaganda made by Hollywood on behalf of the Communist Party of China to help them woo the more liberally-minded, freedom-loving citizens of Hong Kong into the communist fold. I can only assume the movie would have ended like this if North Korea had ponied up enough cash.

I feel like you've painted yourself into a corner here, Mike. What to do after every last well-heeled dick has been sucked? Whither shall your career progress after your mouth has been so stuffed with man meat that not one more tube steak can be rammed into your gaping cock holster? Your toothless dong drainer can only accommodate so many rock-hard rods. Only so many phalli can be hammered down your velvety throat with shims and axle grease. The laws of physical mechanics will not be be defied ad infinitum. Your jaw's going to shatter.

What's next on this sloppy semen slide to rock bottom? Will a robotic Smokey the Bear tell us that only we can prevent forest fires in your next film? Will you personally polish my knob and let me insert a five-second shout-out to my mom in your next film if I slip you a twenty? Will the movie be seven hours long to accommodate a Men's Warehouse spot and a forty-minute scene where the main character eats at an Olive Garden and keeps ordering refills on the unlimited bread sticks? Tell me, Michael Bay; tell me what could possibly satiate your unending lust for cock in your mouth? WHERE DOES IT END, MIKE?

Oh, and tell Steve that his legacy also hangs in the balance after his participation in this little robot explodorama. It takes a lot of Schindler's List and Saving Private Ryan to balance out this massive pile of raging fellated boners.

Sebastian Braff


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