While some critics have likened Spree to a “modern version” of American Psycho, it is so much more depressing than that. At least in terms of highlighting a total sense of amorality as propagated by being part of Western society. This “membership,” in turn, further propagating the unavoidable slaves we’ve all become to “the socials”–which, of course, are really “the anti-socials.” Introverted, doomed-to-be-an-incel Kurt Kunkle (Joe Keery, in a star turn) is just such an example of that slavery. That willing and eager slavery.
Directed by Eugene Kotlyarenko and co-written with Gene McHugh, the documentary/guerilla filmmaking style is updated to be shown through the lens of YouTube videos and livestreams (via “LiveFly” but it’s obviously modeled after Instagram). So it is that we learn Kurt has spent ten years of his life documenting it with videos and livestreams that no one sees (as evidenced by the intro in which we see zero viewers are watching)–an eerie and chilling reality that many of us can relate to, as it becomes clearer that all we’re doing is documenting the most mundane facets of our existence to prove that we do, in fact, exist. The new Cartesian anthem being, “I use social media, therefore I am.”
Fed up with being invisible even online, however, Kurt decides it’s time to take a drastic measure in order to finally get noticed and go viral. And what, one assumes, could be more drastic than going on a murderous rampage and documenting it live? As his videoed plot unfolds–calling it “The Lesson,” or rather, #TheLesson–Kurt begins to realize that because of the era we live in, many question the veracity of the horrific things they see online–indoctrinated by now to believe it’s all mostly “fake news.” Still, as Kurt rehashes his memories of when the planes crashed into the Twin Towers on 9/11, while he was at the most impressionable age of childhood, “No one could ever forget an event like that–real or fake.” Thus, no matter what people believe is real, the publicity generated is all valuable.
Making merchandise via a MAGA-esque hat that says “Kurt’s World” (his handle is KurtsWorld96), there is no end to the desperate measures Kurt will take to become “a brand” people are interested in. No one is. And part of that implication is manifest in the fact that he’s part of the icky, unwanted “brand” called white men–two qualities that render him inherently uninteresting. Like an unformed block that no amount of chiseling can flesh out into a compelling or admirable entity.
Within the first minutes of the film, it’s also quickly made evident how all of our brains have been re-trained in the past two decades to view interactions with people as entirely transactional. This point is made in Kurt explaining that he likes his job as a Spree driver because “you’re interacting with people all the time, which is great for content.” It’s not “great” for much more than that, and certainly not after years of growing accustomed to being alone in his room where the so-called world rests at everyone’s fingertips, ergo, “One thing led to another, and I started really getting into online gaming.” In other words, “incel-in-training.”
His only lifeline to “being relevant” is a former babysitting charge–whom he only agreed to babysit precisely because “younger people” are, once more, a source of content. Namely, Bobby (Josh Ovalle) a.k.a. @BobbyBaseCamp–because being referred to as your handle has somehow been more normalized than your actual name. In fact, Kurt is so simultaneously awestruck and jealous of Bobby’s following that he decides to kill him for it after his other previous kills (all people he picks up in his car) fail to get attention.
With Bobby’s livestream commandeered, Kurt now has a much wider audience (one that assumes Bobby’s kill was fake, and only done for increased views)–but still not as big as comedian Jessie Adams’ (Sasheer Zamata). Trying to latch onto her following earlier in the day when she was cajoled into his car for a ride share, Jessie is both disgusted by and empathetic toward Kurt’s behavior, remembering how desperately she once wanted to be internet famous but now mostly desires only to return to a state of anonymity, or so she says onstage to her hundreds of thousands of viewers (if they were in the millions, maybe she wouldn’t need to use the ridesharing version of the Spree app). In fact, Kurt is the catalyst she needed to see that it’s time to go offline–the big announcement she makes before literally doing a mic drop and leaving the stage as a creepy Kurt watches from afar, seemingly contemplating the meaning of his entire existence if it’s suddenly “on-trend” to go offline.
Before making it to Jessie’s gig, Kurt has another brush with middling fame in the form of uNo (Sunny Kim), a Korean DJ with a huge following as well. Her appearance is yet another aspect of why the film needed to take place in Los Angeles: it is by far the most taken in by middling fame. That, and it’s a driving town, and Kurt is, well, a driver. To that point, it’s been said that driving, especially in traffic-laden L.A., can numb your brain–almost as much as the internet. Kurt figures that between @BobbyBaseCamp’s account (which he’s completely taken over at this juncture) and hers (if she’ll agree to feature him), he might actually be able to go viral with #TheLesson. What is the lesson, exactly? Well, it’s a how-to for garnering fame. Which, in modern existence, has long been more accurately described as notoriety. And how to get that? By engaging in escalating acts of violence, which Kurt has committed to doing for the duration of this day.
So it is that as an 80s-tinged track plays that would surely be Stranger Things-approved, we get that Patrick Bateman comparison to the hilt as Kurt barrels through an encampment of homeless people underneath a freeway overpass narrating, “Are you seeing all these homeless people? It’s pathetic. Zero social media presence. They don’t even care that the whole world doesn’t even know that they exist. If I ran over their tent and killed them all, no one would even care right now.” And so he slams right through a tent to prove that point. Although the extremeness of the gesture is intended as a parody, it is, in truth, the way most people actually think and feel about the homeless–or anyone who deigns to focus on mere survival as opposed to their social media presence. Because, in this epoch, a worthwhile social media account says more about you than your bank account, after all. Homeless people and overall broke asses tend to have neither. And while it’s chic to feign caring about “the less fortunate”–as it’s phrased with such language-distancing political correctness–if one is parading such “care” on social media, the truth of the matter is that no one gives a fundamental shit when off social media. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be such a rampant (non) social (media) issue.
As Kurt aims to make his path intertwine as much as possible with Jessie’s, the lengths to which he’s willing to go to become infamous only augment, and we are forced to come face to face with many of our own pathetic aims and concerns in the twenty-first century. Ones that will not likely change, as this is the trajectory the corporations have placed us on. In the 90s, it was cable TV, in the 00s, reality TV, MySpace and Facebook, in the 10s, Instagram, and now, TikTok. These mediums of fame-seeking for the common man will surely only find new outlets in app format as time wears on. Until we reach the point where we’re trying to go viral for the nuclear holocaust tableau behind us.
Ending with a series of news clips that show the aftermath of the spree, Peggy March’s 1963 hit, “I Will Follow Him,” is repurposed for an ideal sardonic effect. In Jesus’ day, “trying” to get a following wasn’t the goal, yet he got one by spreading a message of love. In the present, KurtsWorld96 knows that the best way to be followed is by spreading a message of hate, which is, more and more, closely related to apathy.
