Die, die, my darling
Smokin' Mr. and Mrs. Smith brings Brangelina to the big screen.

By Cheryl Eddy

FOLKS WITH THEIR fingers on the celebrity-news pulse – especially readers of Star, the National Enquirer, In Touch, Life and Style Weekly, US Weekly, and any number of online gossip sites – are already intimately familiar with the salacious subtext lurking beneath Mr. and Mrs. Smith's highly polished surface. The rumored real-life love connection between its stars, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie, is among the hottest topics in the tabloid universe – right up there with Lindsay Lohan's scary diet, the suspiciously public courtship of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, and all things Paris Hilton. US Weekly coughed up a cool million for the privilege of publishing "12 pages of new pics that prove the romance is real." While the snaps of Pitt, Jolie, and Jolie's toddler strolling on an African beach actually "proved" little – alas, no sucking face was documented – they certainly amplified the frenzy. Even the San Francisco Wax Museum has Brangelina on the brain, pairing the two in a tableau right out front, where you don't even have to pay to see 'em.

There are other juicy facets to this tale, of course: Pitt's marital woes, Jolie's freewheeling history (buh-bye, Billy Bob), and the general feeling that the "sexiest woman alive" (Esquire) and the "sexiest man alive" (People) could not possibly coexist on a movie set without falling for each other. Photos of the duo holding hands while filming Mr. and Mrs. Smith – who cares if they were in character or not! – and eyewitness accounts of frisky frolics proved convincing enough for shrieks of "It's true!" (US Weekly again; the mag's continuing coverage, which has provided gainful employment to scores of "body language experts," also included a Jolie-focused story titled "How She Stole Brad.") So far, my favorite incident in the Brangelina saga comes courtesy of Star's reportage on their African vacation, which apparently gave way to boot-knockin' so vigorous, hotel staff were at first terrified by, then in awe of, the ensuing racket: "Miss Jolie got so excited, the guards thought maybe Mr. Pitt was taking juju herbs to give him the strength of a lion." What? What?

Naturally, all spokespeople in official capacities are still denying everything, and it's not because they care about Jennifer Aniston's feelings. All the buzz adds an extra layer of intrigue to Mr. and Mrs. Smith – potentially luring audiences who might otherwise brush off the film as True Lies redux. Which it is, essentially, sexing up the spies-in-suburbia angle with jazzy direction by Doug Liman (The Bourne Identity, Swingers) and the best-looking cast since, well, ever. The movie opens with the Smiths – John (Pitt) and Jane (Jolie) – in marriage counseling, where he can't even remember how long they've been hitched ("five or six years"). Though they fell in love under exciting circumstances, bonding after a fiery chance meeting in Colombia, life is now a dull routine. Conversations at the Smith household are strenuously polite, revolving around topics like the dinner menu and which curtains to hang in the living room. There's palpable tension – and not the good kind.

Any fool who's seen the movie's trailer knows John and Jane have communication issues. They really, truly can't be honest with each other. In the name of conflict and cinematic coincidence, they're both withholding their true identities as top-secret assassins. (What are the chances?) And they're both damn good at their jobs, zipping out of their comfortable hood to quickly dispatch their prey, using a combination of firepower, cunning, and in Jane's case, at least one dominatrix getup. They even have his-and-hers weapon stashes, concealed in spots that snicker at the traditional gender roles this couple only pretends to embody: Jane's, behind the oven; John's, beneath the tool shed out back.

Who they actually work for, any moral issues all this calculated killing raises, and other incidentals are jettisoned in favor of focusing on John and Jane's relationship, which shifts from boring to dangerous after they're both assigned the same target (Adam Brody, very Seth Cohen-esque even outside of The O.C.). Naturally, they get in each other's way while trying to carry out the hit. The situation worsens when each Smith – they're both so competitive they can't even pull out of their driveway without racing – realizes exactly who that other, mission-bungling assassin was. Double entendres abound: "I missed you," she says, when they're back in faux-bliss mode after exchanging bullets in the desert. "I missed you too," he replies. Wink, wink.

Inevitably, these ruthless executioners must battle each other, symbolically wreck their tasteful abode, and realize, with sudden clarity, they really do love each other. With their darkest secrets revealed, they can finally be a fully functioning couple – albeit with nagging differences (she's deliberate, he's spontaneous) and the small matter of dodging their angry, armed-to-the-teeth employers. As John's associate Eddie (Vince Vaughn, who provides nearly all the film's comic high points) warns, "You two stay together, you're dead." Thus, the film's overlong final third is full of go-boom set pieces, including a pretty awesome car chase in which the Smiths drive a minivan, and a shoot-out in a home-furnishings store (at this point, the domestic-disturbance motif rings a little heavy – we get it, already). Throughout, XXX: State of the Union screenwriter Simon Kinberg, who was a Columbia University student when he penned Mr. and Mrs. Smith as his MFA thesis project, keeps the bickering repartee flying: "Don't undermine me in front of the hostage!"

I suspect Mr. and Mrs. Smith would not be nearly as much fun with a different cast. Word is, Nicole Kidman was originally supposed to play Jane – and after seeing wild-child Jolie in the role, I can't even imagine what that would be like. Despite her knack for picking stinky material – Taking Lives, both Tomb Raider movies, Life or Something Like It, the soul-sucking Shark Tale, and the overhyped Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow – Jolie's status as a Hollywood supernova remains utterly unchallenged. Even Alexander failed to draw much grumbling from the Oscar Reclamation Committee. As for Pitt, he's made wiser choices over the years, though he's clearly better in contemporary pieces (Fight Club, Ocean's Eleven) than in period work (muscles aside, Troy? Feh).

In Mr. and Mrs. Smith both actors are in their element, mixing action-hero antics with slinky dance numbers; they also work up enough sexual tension to justify all those breathless tabloid reports (and perhaps even a certain high-profile divorce). Big, dumb, exceedingly implausible, and worthy of a jumbo tub with extra butter, Mr. and Mrs. Smith is hardly the greatest movie ever made. But if it's Jolie-Pitt chemistry you seek, look no further – together, they practically put the periodic table up on the screen for your enjoyment.

'Mr. and Mrs. Smith' opens Fri/10 at Bay Area theaters. See Movie Clock for show times.