Today's LAT examines the Job-like trials that fauxteur fashion plate Michael Bay had to endure (budget problems! an abbreviated shooting schedule! torrential downpours sent by a God who's obviously not a fan of his work!) to finally ready The Island for release. In the course of recounting the various obstacles he surmounted during production, Bay once again touts the film's philosophical and ethical underpinnings ("I wanted people to leave the theater saying, 'If I could own a clone, would I?'" a query previously discussed at length here), perhaps to demonstrate that his struggles were for a higher purpose than the frequent detonation of futuristic-looking shit. However, the Times saves Bay's most troubling existential mind-fuck for the final paragraph:

Having blatantly ignored our exhortations to pay better attention to contemporary fashion and napalm the 80s out of his walk-in closet, hacky The Island director/amateur philosopher Michael Bay is once again forced to walk the sartorial plank of the Fauxteur Fashion Minute: