The bodyguard Michael Bryce continues his friendship with assassin Darius Kincaid as they try to save Darius’ wife Sonia.
Chuck says:
The Covid-19 pandemic made us miss many things we had come to take for granted. Obviously, I missed going to the movies for a variety of reasons. The spectacle that can only be achieved by seeing a film on a screen three stories tall and five stories wide, the feeling of energy that’s generated from a crowd eager to take in a big-screen epic and the quiet that overcomes a large audience when greeted with a moving moment were all things I longed for while cinemas were locked down. And need I mention the popcorn?
You know what I haven’t missed? Bloated action movies that don’t have a single original idea, containing nothing but a plethora of rote action sequences that are supposed to pass for entertainment. Case in point, “The Hitman’s Wife’s Bodyguard,” a needless sequel that brutally reminded me of how vacuous a film can be and how so many millions of dollars could be so senselessly wasted.
Ryan Reynolds returns as Michael Bryce, a disgraced bodyguard who this time is roped into helping not only his former client, assassin Darius Kincaid (Samuel L. Jackson), but his foul-mouthed wife Sonia (Salma Hayek) as well. Tell me if you’ve heard this one before: Evil mastermind Aristotle Papadopolous (Antonio Banderas…yes, let that sink in – Antonio Banderas playing a flamboyant Greek megalomaniac!) is intent on wiping out all of Europe’s internet databases. The reason why? Got me! It’s vaguely mentioned in some passing fashion, which indicates just how important it is to the movie. Interpol agent Bobby O’Neill (Frank Grillo) is on his tail but he can’t get any help from his superiors because he’s a maverick, a wild card, a man’s man who does things his way! Circumstances lead him to the bickering central trio, who he promptly arrests and coerces, through the threat of extended jail time, into helping him bring down Papadoplous.
A prime example of lowest common denominator entertainment, the writing – a term I’m using very loosely here- by Brandon Murphy and Tom O’Connor is nothing but a collection of tired action scenes that director Patrick Hughes seems to think can be made fresh by rendering them in the loudest way possible manner. That the film doesn’t begin with a warning that bleeding ears may be the result of sitting through it is the height of irresponsibility. In between the numerous explosions, what passes for witty dialogue consists of the constant use of the F-Bomb indicating this is not a movie as much as a potential drinking game; serious inebriation would result in a half hour if a shot were taken every time everyone’s favorite expletive is spat out.
Nobody in the cast breaks a sweat. Jackson glowers and cusses, Hayek does her best to stay contained in her skimpy outfits and Reynolds continues his faux innocence act, put-upon throughout, his passive aggressive sense of snark his only defense. Oh, and Morgan Freeman shows up too. He must need the money.
The mediocrity on display is exhausting. As every “Been-There-Done-That” moment played out, I slipped deeper and deeper into a demoralized funk, reminded of all that’s wrong with so many Hollywood films of this sort. Aware that I was spending 99 minutes of my life that I would l never get back, knowing that other such experiences were in my future depressed me to no end. My longing for the return to the cinema was officially over. Thank you, “Hitman’s Wife’s Bodyguard” for reminding me of all I hate about big budget action films. I didn’t realize how good I had it when the theaters were shuttered.
1 Star
