Meet the Spartans
is the movie equivalent of penis-enhancement e-mails: an immoral
cash-grab from people who don't give a flying fuck about you.
Actually, I'll call it Meet the Sparten,
as the marquee at the Bonner Mall in Ponderay, Idaho did. The
teens working there didn't bother to get it right, because they
know it doesn't matter. One thing aimless adolescents can sense,
it's the indifference of authority.
Let's talk business ethics for a moment. I'm
not an expert on them. I only know from firsthand experience
that a company can legally fire you for stealing napkins in
bulk, that the Family Dollar frowns on employees clocking in
and then going down to the creek to get high on shoe polish,
that gas stations do not like their workers to stick their heads
into the underground tanks and inhale deeply, and that Hancock
Fabrics comes down pretty hard on anyone who lets her husband
sleep off a drunk under the calico bolts, even if she is assistant
manager. That's probably enough to fill a book for ambitious
assholes in airports to read with a highlighter in hand. It's
not the kind of ethics I want to talk about, though. Let's leave
that plank in my eye for now.
I don't think companies, like Twentieth Century
Fox, have a moral responsibility to make good products. Their
job is to make a shitload of money, and if that means exploiting
the public, have at it. They might worry about shitting in the
pants that is their reputation with a movie like Meet the
Sparten because people will say, "Oh, I don't want to see
anything from that studio; they always poop their pants." I
doubt they do. Movie studios don't have reputations anymore.
They're just commodity manufacturers, like Chinese factories
making drug-laced toys.
In other words, the studio is off the hook for
the pantload of Meet the Sparten and we have no right
to get mad at it. It's just doing it's job. That doesn't let
every fucking asshole involved in its production off the hook,
though. Even if the studios don't have to care about quality,
or have pride in the product, the individuals do. Thousands
had some part in shoveling this massive maggot-infested turd
down our throats. They are immoral sons of bitches, world-class
assholes, and cock-swilling turd-breaths who only care about
money. They aren't trying to make art, or you happy. In fact,
if they weren't making god-awful dogshit like this, they'd be
spamming your e-mail inbox for miracle cures, dick-growers or
horny swingers in your area.
Not one person who could have stopped a hateful,
homophobic, overpoweringly dreary pile of shit like Meet
the Sparten bothered to do so. Man, if I ever wished for
a God, now is the time. Just so there is a hell where these
grassfuckers can go to hell and get their entrails yanked out
through their nostrils every single day. Hell, I'd even take
whatever god it is those smelly ladies in the Toyota Tercels
with the purple "Goddess is Alive" bumper stickers worship when
they aren't buying crap for their cats.
Fuck every single one of the pricks who pushed
this piece out the asshole of Hollywood. Sometimes a movie sucks
and you can see where someone tried. Not with Meet the Sparten.
It's as cheap, sloppy, lazy and quickly-made as a movie could
be. In terms of production values, it looks like something that
should be shown on the first day of a three-day student film
festival at a special education institution. It takes an extraordinary
level of indifference for the non-retarded to achieve something
Meet the Sparten is supposed to be a
parody, but it's exactly what happens when unfunny people are
allowed to work unchecked by people with senses of humor. The
movie rips off the story of 300 and then fills it with
lame homophobic jokes meant to do two things: point out the
fact that 300 was homoerotic, and remind the audience
that gay men like other men. I'm not sure that either of these
is supposed to be funny, but I can see how a twelve-year-old
who doesn't want to be gay but keeps waking from wet dreams
about humping his best friend would laugh with nervous insecurity.
Maybe those boys are who this movie is targeting. In which case,
the makers probably bought a lot of ad time during Batman:
The Animated Series.
In the few moments that it isn't suggesting
gay men are not manly, Meet the Sparten makes broad,
weak stabs at pop culture figures who are as irrelevant as the
movie. Ha ha, they put a hump on Paris Hilton's back. Ho ho,
Sylvester Stalllone is old. Oh, Britney Spears acts crazy! Some
impersonators who have so little resemblance to the stars of
American Idol (the Paula Abdul is white) that the movie
has to tell us who they're pretending to be say shit just like
the people on that show. That's the level of gags, not because
they're remotely funny, but because they're supremely easy targets.
Nobody making this movie wanted to work hard. Hell, if hard
work were required, the grassfuckers would rather phish for
people's credit card information.
What the fuck is supposed to be funny? Usually,
I can at least figure out what joke is being attempted and decide
whether it's funny or not. I can't here. I don't see it, because
they didn't write jokes. That was too fucking hard.
I sat through Meet the Sparten with forty
teenagers in rural Idaho, fifty miles south of Canada. There
may be no more easily amused audience in the world. For them,
the Friday night options are: see whatever new movie comes out;
smoke crystal meth and feel up a fat, toothless mate in the
cab of a pickup; or milk-feed and bathe their 4-H goat. At the
beginning of the movie, these kids laughed easily, but by the
fifteen-minute mark even they knew they'd been screwed and the
theater was silent. They grew restless and talked of calving,
who now worked at the Dairy Depot and wondered whether Chris
had any residue in his pipe out in the Ford. If you can't entertain
people this hungry for distraction, you suck Godzilla-sized
balls. So does your movie.
Of course, the people behind Meet the Sparten
don't care. All they want is your money. If they don't get it
this way, they'll send you an e-mail. One Finger.