I have a confession to make. I’m comforted by the fact Brad Pitt, who’s a few years older than me, is still considered a sex symbol. Is that pathetic? I suppose it is. And more than a bit ridiculous. But what isn’t absurd in any dialogue involving stars of the magnitude of Pitt and co-star Angelina Jolie? How perfectly matched they seem in both life and on-screen: all smirking confidence and envy-inducing bone structure.
But the film you wonder, how was the film? It gleamed. From Jolie’s slit-eyed stare to the shimmering stainless steel domesticity surrounding Mr. & Mrs. Smith it was all like some sort of inverted funhouse mirror for middle-class Americana — an impossibly beautiful reflection of a stale ugliness.
Mr. and Mrs Smith have been married just short of the seven-year itch stage, but in this household, their urge to stray has less to do with infidelity than their secretive, highly glamorous line of work. They kill people. For money. For rival companies. Hers looking like it’s peopled by Victoria’s Secret models. His, a boyhood fantasy hideaway clubhouse concealed behind the grey blandness of respectability. Home life though, is a bore. They sit across from each other’s frigid indifference every night and lob pleasantries back and forth like bored tennis players. But all this will change. When they’re hired to knock-off the same guy and nearly blow each other into Smith-ereens, it re-ignites the spark in their relationship. From there they proceed on a long tortuous, explosion-filled quest to kill each other.
Do they have any chemistry? Yeah, mostly. But unfortunately, the filmmaker is so concerned with filling any space between them with, a jauntily-infused tango soundtrack, plot bends and endless pyrotechnics, we never get to really sink our teeth into their visceral magnetism... But perhaps that’s their secret, they’re both simply very good at making us believe they have any.
Opens June 10