Ashton Kutcher is a very intelligent dude. Laugh derisively all you want, hater, but this pretty-boy parleyed a second banana dumbass on a second-rate sitcom into a glorified Candid Camera series on MTV, commercial deals, and into the panties of the former Mrs. John McClane. He’s got enough money to pretty much do whatever film he wants. So why the fuck does he keep picking progressively worse scripts? His best film to date was a fucking catchphrase I’m still convinced was a dare between the Weinstein brothers for a dollar and the right to get anus shotgun on all future casting couch threesomes. Not satisfied with merely despoiling any tepid romantic comedy he can find, Ashton decided to wipe his ass on the sordid indie dark sexromedy. It has yet to work for any sitcom 20-something: not a Dawson’s Creeker, a 90210omo, a 7th Heavenizen, not even Roseanne’s brood. So why in the pink and purple fuck did Kelso think it’d work for him?
Spread is the kind of shitty shiny fuckfest that appeals to exactly two kinds of people: the sad, husky girls in the flyover states, who lap at the excrement of Perez Hilton, thinking every night in LA is clubs and coke and champagne and jacuzzi orgies, and the skinny paparazzi fodder who pretend to live that way. And none of them are going to ever see this movie, so why make it? It’s glued together from pages of Bret Easton Ellis novels (but without any of that homo shit cause that’s faggy, brah), Maxim magazine centerfolds, and masturbation fused scraps of The Game and Tucker Max’s webpage. It’s that same bullshit — girls will only fuck you if you treat them like shi, wait-three-days-to-phone, limousine-blowjob instructional/destructional manual. The same bullshit that makes frat boys fingerfuck sorority sisters on spooge-sticky pleather couches while John Mayer croons in the background. It’s the primordial spooge that gives birth to the “Sex and the City” craze, the constant need to look at glossy magazine spreads about famous people. It’s the scum that grows on the cesspool of society, and we’re feeding it by giving into it.
Ashton Kutcher does an amazing job because the second he saunters on screen, I want to bash his fucking skull out his fucking sphincter. Here’s all you need to know: his character’s name is Nikki, he’s a gigolo, and he constantly wears skinny tight rolled jeans, thin black suspenders over tight t-shirts or sweaters, a studded 80’s belt, and a thin scarf around his neck. He doesn’t drink, just smokes cigarettes and orders milk because he can. He’s homeless, jobless, carless, and lives like a parasite off of desperate cougars after his supple boy-ass — spending his days lounging poolside while eating take-out. And not just cougars, he leeches all the joy and care out of people who pay attention to him until even they won’t put up with his bullshit. Are there people like that out in LA? You better fucking believe it. Are we just jealous of them? Well, who the fuck wouldn’t want to not have any responsibiliies other than occasionally giving a tongue bath to a rejuvenated vagina and/or a mechanically altered cock? They rub their plasticized faces in our faces every day, so do we really want to watch a movie devoted to how tooootallly awesum they are? Fuck and no.
While this film really was convinced it was a sneering clever parody — a Billy Idol giving the middle finger to the dicks who live this way, it actually became a poor sham — Billy Idol NOW at aged 60 giving the finger to the cameras on “American Idol,” while the publicity paycheck cools in his back pocket. The ultimate crux of the film involves Nikki falling for a female version of himself — a lady-playa — who he tries to romance. Logic schmogic, it makes perfect sense for two parasites with no redeemable social skills and/or qualities to live in connubial bliss despite the fact that neither can perform a job other than ones with obvious sexual connotations. The ultimate coup de grace of the film is so fucking wretch-tarded that I actually lost 17 IQ points for being subjected to it. Fortunately, I was able to have a Scientologist Wikipede me back to where I’m supposed to be, and all it involved was selling several copies of Dianetics to Austrian tourists at the Hollywood and Highland Center. Xenu be praised.
I think the only reason Kutcher made this movie was that he was getting bored fucking Demi Moore and so he decided to do raw sex on screen. And they needed the raw fucking to spackle the huge, gaping plot points. It was like an erudite porn comprised of seventh-period Math class tweets. The actors didn’t so much say the dialogue as beat each other over the head with it, two Muay Thai fighters wincing between cane blows. They would spurt meaningless platitudes, stare at each other blankly, and then start fucking like a W. magazine spread of the Boring White People Kama Sutra: The Comma Sooter. The sex scenes had to be shot all cut-scene because I’m pretty sure that between Anne Heche and Ashton Kutcher, they couldn’t keep a straight face. Sebastian Stan has made a career out of playing in this kind of “Gossip Girl” Shit, so good on him for finally getting to play a weakling and not a douchebag. It’s really broadening his Massengil Vitae. You’ve probably already seen Rachel Blanchard naked, if you watched Where The Truth Lies, so I guess this movie will finally let you see what the sexkitten Lisa from Adventureland looks like naked. Oh, Margarita Levieva, you’re better than this, I’m sorry you took your clothing off for this movie. And if you wanted to see Ashton Kutcher’s ass, here you go. It looks a lot like his face, only with slightly less stubble and a tinier smirk.
Honestly, don’t even waste a moment on this dreck, since the only worthwhile parts will be up on Mr. Skin in a week. Remember the names of Jason Dean Hall and David Mackenzie, not because they have any particular writing or directing skill (disrespectfully), but because they’re about one half-tab of Rohypnol from being on a Megan’s Law website. (Is Rohypnol still the go-to date rape drug? I don’t want to be lax in my references. In my day, we used to use a sock full of ether and a panel van.) I guess the only real shocker was catching Kutcher trying to swindle a haggard cougar who looked like someone Wayne Newton-ed a Gabor sister, only to realize it was Maria Conchita Alonso. Yikes. Looks like you didn’t quite escape the ravages of the Running Men. But to make a statement like that would just be perpetrating the hateculture of the godforsaken gossip rags. So I won’t do that.