What a piece of garbage. What an utterly shiny inducement toward irritation, frustration and the throwing of crockery out a high window (in a pinch, crumpling an empty soda can with feeling can substitute).

“No Strings Attached,” (2011, rated R) I mean “Friends With Benefits,” I mean — yes, “No Strings Attached,” starring Natalie “Remember When I was 12 and I Could Actually Act” Portman and Ashton “Hey, I’m from ‘Punk’d,’ So It’s a Miracle I Can Act At All” Kutcher is a horrible little 108-minute cinematic donut hole about two attractive people who say idiotic things, have sitcom-charming friends, agree to have sex but not get attached at all, and end up falling in love. Duh. Between the opening title and the awful torpor of closing credits music, we also get Adam (proto-Ashton, in flashbacks) asking if he can “finger” Emma (proto-Natalie), a self-loathing Emma referring to her father’s funeral as “some stupid thing” and later telling Adam, apropos of nothing, “if you’re lucky, you’re never going to see me again,” a subplot about Adam’s famous father (Kevin Kline — the residuals from “Wild Wild West” really aren’t paying the bills, are they?) taking drugs, doing Purple Drank and picking up young LA cuties with tiny dogs, and a bevy of young, attractive people living in impossibly immaculate modern California masterpieces while pursuing careers in medicine/entertainment and being buzzed after by entourages of clever friends with nothing better to do than to be their own personal “Mystery Science Theater 3000” peanut galleries.

Ferinstance. Adam and Emma run into each other and a bunch of other friends at a farmer’s market bursting with canvas bags and J. Crew capris. “What is this,” says Adam’s sidekick, Eli, a critique on the script come to life, “the Peach Pit? Yeah, that’s a ‘90210’ reference.”A few scenes later, when Adam becomes devastated at his famous dad sleeping with his now ex, he decides to call every girl in his contacts until someone will sleep with him (the scene in which he ultimately ends up at Emma’s house). “That’s a terrible, self-destructive idea,” Eli points out.

Ah, but who cares! That’s just a throw-away laugh line! We came here to watch Ashton Kutcher and Natalie Portman make out and roll around in wacky places like her hospital’s break room and pretend to have sex, since she works ridiculous hours and he’s just so accommodating. Oh, and because she “would become a weird, scary version of myself” if they started actually dating. Doesn’t that sound like a healthy basis for a fun sex romp? If you were Adam, isn’t that the kind of thing that would make you show up when Emma and her female roommates were all having their periods at the same time, with a box of cupcakes and a period mix CD (featured tracks: “Keep Bleeding” by Leona Lewis and “I’ve Got the World on a String” by Frank Sinatra)?

Look, there are actually people who get involved in, no kidding, sexual relationships that neither wishes to turn into boyfriend-girlfriend breakfast-eating Valentine’s Day folderol, and guess what? These relationships can be fulfilling without the falling-in-love wedding bell cliches American romances insist happen whenever two cute people lock lips.

Why, with all the classic movies Netflix makes available for instant viewing, do I subject myself to movies I’m almost certainly going to hate? Is it because I enjoy being a hater, a downer, a peer-into of Corn Flakes? Is it because I think there’s any chance I might actually be pleasantly surprised by a movie like “No Strings Attached”? OK, a little of both. But the majority of my motivation is to explain why this kind of movie isn’t just the harmless fluff it pretends to be. Think about the most violent, heart-thumping, blood-drenched movie you’ve ever seen, and how you left the theater and jumped at the darkness and fumbled with your keys and squealed with your friends about how you couldn’t think about hockey masks/New England hotels/amateur camping videos the same way again. Movies get under our skin. But, unless you were 5 when you saw “It,” you’re probably not going to be seriously messed up by an unnatural fear of clowns — not only because how the subject matter portrayed in horror/slasher/thriller movies isn’t usually a large part of real life, but also because our visceral emotional reaction to such subject matter causes us to look at what scared the crap out of us, if only for a few, elevated heart-rate moments as we finish off our popcorn crumbs in the parking lot. When it comes to crappy romances and a certain kind of dysfunctional drama, however, I think there’s a real chance of being poisoned emotionally after years of movies that seem as pleasant as emotional Klonopin. What one swallows in “No Strings Attached” isn’t just that sex prompts emotion. Our main character is terrified of getting emotionally involved, and buries her fear in denial, insisting that it won’t happen if she won’t let it, sort of the same logic as someone who’s trying to lose weight but doesn’t want to look at the nutritional information on the potato chip bag. It doesn’t mean those calories aren’t there — and if you do it long enough, you’re going to end up with a coronary. But what’s the consequence in this horrible movie? Does the guy she realizes too late that she loves ditch her emotionally manipulative, anti-snuggling butt? Nope. She actually ends up stumbling on the 21st century version of playing hard-to-get, the secret level where all it takes is sex to land a big hunky amorous dude who will make you mix tapes and spoon you soup. Mess with a nice person’s heart because you’re immature and fragile, and not in a cute way. That’s a horrible message — especially because it comes in a tight-abbed, lustrous-haired, Stella Artois and $12 million houses for 20-somethings package that says not to think about it at all.

Ashley O’Dell reviews movies that aren’t in the theater anymore. She lives in North Hollywood, near the In-N-Out Burger.