To explain:  being a film critic is great. 

You get to rail on ‘bad’ films and praise ‘good’ ones.  I wouldn’t know, because I’m not a film critic.  But being me is better; there is much freude to be had in punishing the films those idiots overpraise, and embracing that which they will soon embrace and pretend they loved all along.  Crap, now I’m writing a post about the convenient cultural memory of the critic; instead of the normal filmgoer claiming they knew the surprise for The Sixth Sense (I didn’t, also please insert joke about Bruce Willis ordering salmon at the dinner even though he’s dead.  Who knew he liked fish?), they claim they liked Lebowski all along, let’s call that The Creeping Tomatometer Bandwagon Effect.

And I’m still writing about it.  Crap.  The point is that between these films that are fun to eviscerate/hug, there is an icky feeling in encountering the lousy film that knows it’s lousy.  There’s no point in bashing them, and no joy to boot.  The kind of person who thinks that mocking a Transformers for having no story is the kind of person that I would mock for not seeing Transformers in the theater.

Nevertheless, for you the reader, and the educational benefit, and ‘he sees the movies’ and so on.  Also, it’s another opportunity to talk about film critics.