By Heather Christie

So, let’s talk about why Ashton Kutcher wears suspenders throughout the entirety of Spread. Ashton with sweater and jeans? Suspenders. Ashton with polo? Suspenders. Ashton with no shirt? Suspenders. In Spread, A-Kutch’s suspenders are like the unwelcome third wheel to the cinematic date-o-sphere.

But why?! Why must poor, unsuspecting audience members suffer through such an ill-advised and repetitive fashion accessory. I mean, seriously, suspenders only really work for those few among us who are terminally hip—oh, and all boys named Jack—but they simply don’t work for those who have no home and must hustle women for food, shelter, and clothing—scrubs, if you will, like Ashton’s character Nikki in Spread.

Perhaps the suspenders are only necessary because Nikki has a hard time keeping his pants on, which is ultimately the crux around which the action in this flick revolves. First he beds the drop-dead gorgeous Samantha (Anne Heche) and then while Sammy’s away—total teenager styles—Nikki hosts a partay in Sam’s multi-million dollar Hills home whilst dicking around with every girl to whom he can say “hello gorgeous.” Ugh.

Maybe the flick is dubbed “Spread” because the ladies just can’t seem to keep their panties on for A-Kutch, (And who can blame them, really, the man is a delicious slice of beefcake-testosteroni pie) graphically spreading for this man one frame at a time. Or perhaps it’s called “Spread” due to the copious numbers of bed spreads that get rumpled during any one of the film’s abundant sex scenes. Or maybe—just maybe—the title comes from the peanut butter and jam sandwich Nikki makes early on the move; to make the sammy, he must spread, just like the women who spread for him in his life. Oooooh, how symbolic…Granted, that seems a bit of a stretch.

All in all, the movie–much like its main man—needs to find itself, and fast, before its imminent condemnation heralds its extinction. There is little to no character development of either Kutcher’s character or the woman, Heather (Margarita Levieva), with whom he falls madly in love but who just so happens to be playing the same sordid game of high-rolling-prostitution as he is. Not to mention the fact that it’s just poor form to declare that someone—namely, Anne Heche–is headlining a flick and then throw her in for 3% of the film, maximum. For shame, Ms. Heche, for accepting such a vacuous and superficial role.

If you happen to be tempted to foot the $12 for admission to Spread this weekend, don’t. Get your most attractive male friend to walk around in suspenders with a dumbfounded look on his face for a couple of hours and you’ll get the same effect.