L.A. Gigolo: Glitz, Glam, and a Side of Existential Cringe

Oh, where do I start with “L.A. Gigolo”? It’s a bit like opening a Ballerina cookie, hoping for creamy nougat, but instead finding a dry, crumbly mess. You’ve got Ashton Kutcher parading around as the charming Nikki, slipping in and out of bed like he’s in some Olympic sport that’s less about medals and more about conquest. And Anne Heche, she’s there, exuding charisma and laying down some serious acting chops amidst all the fluff. I wonder if the director, David Mackenzie, of all people thought, “Hey, let’s try and make a rom-com but strip it of romance and comedy.” I mean, talk about bold decisions!

Anyway, isn’t it kinda funny how this film tries hard to glamorize a lifestyle, but leaves you with a bitter aftertaste, like an over-smoked surströmming? That high life in L.A., it looks shiny on the surface, but it’s more hollow than a Vasa knäckebröd if you dig too deep.

Flashback to when I traveled to L.A. for the first time—eager-eyed and dreaming of sunny beaches. A pang of nostalgia hit me seeing those cinematic shots. Except, my trip was less pool parties and more getting lost on Sunset Boulevard, desperately attempting to read a map, pre-GPS era. Just like Kutcher’s character, I was seduced by the city’s surface—until reality kicked in with the smog and traffic woes.

So, do I recommend it? Well, maybe watch it for Kutcher’s abs if that’s your cup of coffee. Or if you want an introspection on life’s moral grey zones. Or if, perhaps, you’d like to question why you spent your precious hour and a half on this. It’s an enigma wrapped in faux fur and low-lit clubs.

But hey, that’s just me rambling on a damp Tuesday afternoon. What do I know? I’m just a sucker for stories with a touch more heart.

Check the trailer below