hen Michael Bay wants to screen a cut of his movie, he calls Anthony. Anthony flies from L.A. to wherever Bay is with a pair of digitally encrypted hard drives – one primary, one backup – that will allow Bay's movie to be projected in a certain theater at a certain time before, basically, self-destructing. "He does this for Steven and me," Bay says, meaning Spielberg. Tonight, the theater is in a South Beach multiplex that Bay has arranged for the occasion, where he's sitting in the third row of a totally empty theater, Nikes propped on the seat in front of him. "We don't do anything small," he says.