Saturday, December 03, 2005


Watched "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" last night, with Miss Marks, and Mr. Abramowitz. It's amazing how some work can simply exist without dialogue. "Mr. & Mrs. Smith" is one of these. I think of it not so much as a movie than a ludicrously budgeted dance theater piece produced by the N.R.A.

Angelina Jolie is ridiculously beautiful of couse, and looking more like a CGI effect then ever. Brad at least has acne scars to mar his perfection. Both of them appear to be constructed out of the sort of silky, pliant plastic that Barbie dolls are fashioned from, the kind that is almost warm to the touch and grows sticky in the sun. Throughout the movie, I expected a giant dog to descend from the heavens and scoop up one of our stars in its mouth, only to discard them later with, feet a mangled carcass of bite marks and slobber.

We amused ourselves in the dialogue-free wilderness by dubbing in what they may have said:

BRAD: (upon retrieving some weaponry from a concealed cabinet) This is where Jennifer hides her doughnuts. And her laxatives. And the coke.

ANGELINA: That's so sad. Poor soul. I pity her. No, Brad. You don't want me. You want your idea of me. I'm not going to save you.

BRAD: Jen cries. All the time.

ANGELINA: Of couse. She leads an essentially shallow existence. Where are the knives?

A BABY, UPON BEING HANDED TO ANGELINA JOLIE: Oh, pretty. Pretty lady. Infant syphillis. So cold...and then the fever comes. Hungry. Ugly. Please save me, pretty lady, pretty...mommy?

A bright spot was Vince Vaughan, playing Vince Vaughan and wearing, hilariously, a Ferrara's t-shirt emblazoned with a giant cannoli. I'm willing to bet a million, trillion dollars that this shirt is part of Vaughan's personal wardrobe.

VINCE: What? It's a cannoli. It's a pastry, it's a sweet treat. It's decadent. I'm a decadent guy. You got to live on the edge sometimes--sometime you're looking for a little pure pleasure. I like them, they make me happy. Jennifer likes them, I buy them for Jennifer. She likes them. She doesn't eat them very often, you know, she thinks she's fat. To me, she's beautiful. I don't have a problem with her weight. She's a beautiful, beautiful, girl, but she's a worrier, that one. I tell her, sweetheart, don't worry so much. You're a beautiful girl. I tell her she could even be bigger. Ten, twenty, maybe thirty pounds even, I mean, come on, give a man something to grab on to, she'd still be a beautiful girl. You been to Veneiro's? It's shit, it's dreck, they produce facile pastries for provincial palates. Ferrara's is where it's at my brother, you with me?

(The above should be spoken in 17.3 seconds.)

My favorite part of the movie is when Brad sings along to "Making Love Out of Nothing At All" by Air Supply in the car, and a panoply of emotions play across the enormous face of Angelina Jolie. Disgust. Fear. Confusion. The realization that Brad will probably not make deep cuts in her legs, suck out the blood, and then fuck the laceration. Relief? And, well, with his shiny lips, he's kind of cute.

I love Air Supply.

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