The AntiChrist Is Among Us, And He Has A Mustache.
Mr. And Mrs. Smith
At first glance, this doesn’t seem like the type of movie I’d like. After all, I didn’t make it, and it doesn’t involve Nicky “The Cock Huntress” Hunter in an awkward and clearly medically inadvisable sexual position. But, every once in while, even film snobs like to go slumming, and movies such as this are like a nice, warm, dark alley where you can cuddle up with a quarter-point of H and a woman desperate enough to pretend to be a young Taiwanese boy. Mr. And Mrs. Smith tells the story of a pair of married assassins, who are each unaware of the other’s actual profession, instead believing themselves to be just as boring as the rest of us who don’t kill people or, as in my case, don’t kill people for money. You know, kind of like True Lies, but without the threat of Jamie Lee Curtis revealing her well-toned male swimmer’s body or the perpetually manic Tom Arnold to baffle us as to how a man so clearly strung out on street drugs can be so fat. The film works primarily because of director Doug Liman’s aggressive direction, and the performances of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, who have a palpable… you thought I was going to say chemistry, didn’t you? Admit it. You did. You came here, to my website, dressed in that tight skirt and low-cut blouse, expecting to hear me talk dirty to you, parroting filthily overused phrases about the “chemistry” between actors, or “tension so thick you can cut it with a knife”, or the dreaded “edge of your seat thrill ride”, like I’m some sort of brainwashed hack being paid to spoon feed the idiot American public reasons why they should watch John Travolta movies using words of less than six letters. Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m not desperately trying to put a film degree from NYU to use by toadying up to some magazine editor of a broadsheet newspaper with a sports section bigger than the yellow pages. I dropped out, damn it. I don’t have a career to risk losing, so if you want some safe catchphrases, head on over to Good Morning America and try to listen to Joel Siegel without trying to gnaw through the flesh of your own wrists to end the pain of alliteration and sound-byte synopses.
Now, where was I? Oh yes, why I hated this movie. I know it may have seemed like I enjoyed the film earlier, but then I remembered why I write this crap anyway, which is as an antidote to the aforementioned fawning reviews by Kevin Thomas clones, coupled with internet message boards full of barely literate defenses of terrible movies that essentially make the point that everyone who doesn’t agree is either gay, a communist, or “pretentius”. So despite the fact that I enjoyed Mr. And Mrs. Smith, it has to be noted that this is essentially a collection of witty asides and wisecracks written for a couple of attractive people to deliver while cars blow up. Why ever they chose Angelina Jolie as one of those attractive people is beyond me. I do realize that an admission that I find her unpleasant looking casts aspersions upon my sexuality, so let me just state that I’m as red-blooded and hetero as my libido suppressing anti-depressants will allow me to be, it’s just that I don’t find women with teenage stoner eyes and lips like winter tires attractive. She can’t act, either, she’s just weird and affected, so much so that people think she’s making it up and give her an Oscar just because she can act like a mental patient. Every second girl I went to high school with was like her, begging for attention with scarification and Anne Rice blood imagery, and encouraging them just makes it worse. So , for the benefit of guys everywhere who would like to sit down in their school cafeteria and not have to listen to a long story about teen angst and how it can be solved with a bottle of wine and a packet of Gravol, please stop going to see Angelina Jolie movies, even if they are edge of your seat thrill rides.