Director Michael Bay says he just wants to entertain audiences, but that’s only half the story. He also wants to make a lot of money. And in today’s blood-soaked movie culture, the most dependable cash cow has become the slick and sick horror film. These movies take their cue from exploitation films of the 1970s but pump them with modern Hollywood production values. The grindhouse theaters that once lined Times Square have all shuttered up — just like the prostitutes — giving way to Saw and Michael Bay-produced junk like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre remakes, serving gory goodness to the mainstream for $9 or so a pop.

Like all things Bay touches, modern exploitation films usually suffer from their own commercial pretense: Where exploitation films of yesteryear felt cheap but authentically gritty (just check out Cannibal Holocaust), today’s grit is over-produced. Complex plot setups and glossy, MTV aesthetics (courtesy of music video directors like Marcus Nispel) dubiously attempt to elevate gore for mass acceptance. And ever since Se7en, studios have convinced audiences that they’re watching something serious.

What’s so refreshing about Bay’s latest The Hitcher, then, is that it doesn’t take itself very seriously. With each murderous set piece, the movie becomes both more unsettling and more preposterous. Dave Meyers’ nimble direction gives the film a light, playful rhythm. Going against the trend, Meyers doesn’t set his film in a dingy, green-hued cellar but in the lush natural landscapes of New Mexico. He understands the colorfulness, irony, wit and sexiness of good horror. He also knows how to kill people in spectacular ways.

None of it would work, of course, without the hot college students: Grace Andrews (Sophia Bush) and Jim Halsey (Zachary Knighton) hit the road on their spring break from The University of Texas at Austin. They quickly pick up a serial-killer hitchhiker who chases them through deserts and cruddy diners throughout the film. Inevitably someone gets their body ripped in half and another person’s brains jet out of the back of their head. More importantly, Sophia Bush lathers herself up in the shower and responds to the killer’s touch in her sleep with “Stop it, you’re making me horny.” Best of all, Meyers sets his climactic shootout to the pulsating synthesizers of Nine Inch Nails’ “Closer.”

As in all exploitation, character and emotion come second in The Hitcher. The main characters are emotive — they pout constantly — but they’re also really dumb. Sean Bean as the killer is effectively mysterious and fucked up. The movie works in broad strokes, trading depth for eye candy and absurd action set pieces. A traumatized Grace ends the movie wearing a miniskirt and holding a shotgun. By this point the movie has long descended into pure nihilism. Grace peers at the victim on the other end of her barrel and says, “I don’t care.” Meyers’ message: Neither does he.