Zero-Sum Game: "Mr. and Mrs. Smith"
"I never said all actors are cattle ... what I said was all actors should be treated like cattle."
-- Alfred Hitchcock
How ironic, 25 years after his passing, and more than a half century since he directed an inconsequential little ditty called Mr. and Mrs. Smith, that the Master's pronouncement has been proven true by a Hollywood blockbuster action comedy titled Mr. and Mrs. Smith -- starring Brad and Angelina, no less.
The 2005 version of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the critics are quick to tell us, has nothing to do with Hitch's 1941 screwball comedy with Carole Lombard and Robert Montgomery. As usual, the critics don't have it exactly right. One can read Doug Liman's film as the sunny-side down version of the earlier piece: where Lombard and Montgomery were two witty fools in love, their congenial marriage tested by manufactured, easily surmountable plot twists, Brad and Angelina's loveless union is given spice by the revelation of their secret agent identities and a host of familiar spy tropes, including the ultimate spook turn-on: erase him (or her) before she (or he) erases you.
What to make of Angelina? I must admit, I've never quite understood her charms. Those bee-stung lips would certainly arrest anyone's attention, and her body -- voluptuous yet angular -- is its own special effect. However, for a superstar, there is something detached and incomplete about her performances. Usually she comes under fire for her vogue-like pouts -- nearly every shot of her in this movie seems like it was set up with an album cover in mind -- but I find those less troubling than her unconvincing stabs at method acting (at one point, I felt like chastising the makeup people for not importing enough fake tears). Brad just gives up entirely, underplaying his role to near invisibility, marble-mouthing his lines. He functions best when a film lays siege to his macho virility, as in David Fincher's Se7en and Fight Club, or he gets to go loopy, as the addled pothead in True Romance or the mental patient in 12 Monkeys. Here, he is too recessive a presence to register, and that proves deadly when it comes to striking any sparks with Angelina -- they certainly seem comfy together, but as an on-screen couple, they're too prickly and internalized to generate any real heat. The only character who escapes with his comic dignity intact is Vince Vaughn as Brad's agitated handler. Living with his mom and brandishing shotguns at the first sign of trouble, he seems to have sneaked in from a wilder, more interesting movie, and like a lonely signpost, he is the only remnant of the Liman style.
To compensate for the lack of plot and inspired comedy, Liman falls back on some half-hearted references from Prizzi's Honor and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, and punches up the action quotient. So we get assaults on high-tech skyscrapers, another car chase down a wrong-way freeway, houses blasted to smithereens, kitchens scorched by gunfire. It's all well executed, and Liman has a thing for witty throwaway gags in the midst of the carnage -- one funny bit has Brad tsk-tsking to his wife, "We have to talk," from the back seat of a car, just as said car swan-dives into the river -- but in the end, Mr. and Mrs. Smith is really about marriage therapy, paid for with the corpses of hundreds of faceless agents. In short, Hollywood business as usual. I'll take murder with tea and crumpets, thank you very much.
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