After renting Charlie Wilson’s Bore the other day and managing to survive it barely, only as a mere shell of a person, a mere shadow of a human being — Philip Seymour Hoffman is the ONLY reason to see that movie in my opinion — I felt suddenly wary about all movies, anywhere, everywhere. That’s what that movie did to me, in addition to sucking my precious and well-known joie de vivre out of my very marrow and eyeballs and such. At my core, I wondered if my ability to enjoy movies was gone forever, stolen by Tom Hanks and Julia Roberts in a stupid blonde mushroom wig.
Oh, and then to compound matters, the next day, there was the world’s most BORING documentary about the world’s most BORING band, you know, QUEEN, that had me screaming at the talking head onscreen — who had clearly dug up Freddie Mercury’s corpse and stolen his teeth: “Shut up, shut UP with the talking and show the FREAKIN’ BAND ALREADY!”
AGGHHHHH! My precious and well-known joie de vivre! What had happened? I collapsed in a sobbing heap on the not-entirely-clean floor.
“Is there another movie in the pile over there?” I wailed at MB last night.
There was. And it, praise be, was this:
Hitman.
Glorious Hitman.
Glorious, gratuitously violent, based on a video game I know nothing about because I know nothing about any video games Hitman.
Because sometimes, the only thing that can restore your precious and well-known joie de vivre and make you live again is a sizzling sexy bald man with a bar-code tattoo on the base of his skull slaughtering and splattering your fellow man left and right.
Know what I mean?
Sometimes, the only thing that can restore your precious and well-known joie de vivre and make you live again is a lonely enigmatic killer in a crisp suit and a red tie who can and does wield what you can only assume is a grenade launcher in each of his nimble lonely hands.
It’s true. I’m not making this stuff up.
Sometimes, the only thing that can restore your precious and well-known joie de vivre and make you live again is an unconscionable murderous romp with a side of sympathetic whore.
I mean, what screams joie de vivre more than sympathetic whore, I ask you?
And sometimes, the only thing that can restore your precious and well-known joie de vivre and make you live again is a lonely killer and a sympathetic whore reveling in their intense but arm’s length chemistry where a date consists of dinner and murder and chastity.
I mean, what’s better than a movie that makes you fuzzy and nostalgic about your past?
Sometimes, in the end, it won’t matter to you that the smarties-that-be mostly panned a movie. Not if it restores your precious and well-known joie de vivre. They clearly have no joie de vivre that even needs restoring so how could they possibly appreciate the bloody romantic epic that is Hitman? Besides, if you refer to anyone’s opinion, you refer to your beloved Roger because he a smartie who seems unpretentious while simultaneously making you think of a delicious oatmeal cookie dunked in a cup of hot coffee. And he, your delicious oatmeal cookie, liked the movie, for the most part — although he didn’t mention that it saved his life in any way, which you understand might not happen for everybody. He liked the same things you liked about it so you feel validated and plenty smart, too. Although you sometimes wonder if you’re capable of independent thought apart from your beloved Roger. But don’t think about it now. Just because you’re not on a roll here doesn’t mean you should stop, Peaches.
So bless you, Hitman. Bless you for sheer ridiculousness. Bless you for a nonsensical plot that makes perfect sense to anyone with joie de vivre. Bless you for life-affirming violence. Bless you for oddball chemistry. Bless you for smoldering baldness and helpless whores and celibate killers. Bless you for every little part I managed to see through the queasy cage of my fingers.
Mostly, bless you for restoring my precious and well-known joie de vivre and making me live again.
Bless you, Hitman.
This made me laugh so hard! I just found your blog not too long ago and I’m glad I did. I’ve been just lurking around, but I had to comment on this one. I’ve been reading your archives and I have to say I love your writing! You are honest and funny too. I haven’t even heard of this movie but now I will look for it!
I was looking at the photos going “Who is that?”
Didn’t recognize him without his hat, hair and big old Deadwood mustache.
This was great, Tracey. So funny.
Next you’ll be telling us that you’ve put 300 on the top of your favorite movie list. Bless your joie de vivre Tracey.
I too enjoyed the nonsense of this movie, at the same time finding much joy in Once which suprised me. Liked Hitman, Loved Once.
Sal — Yeah, his imdb photo has hair! He looks completely different. I think I prefer him bald, actually.
Brian — Oh, “Once” is so wonderful. Loved it. The music is haunting.
Sometimes, the only thing that can restore your precious and well-known joie de vivre and make you live again is a lonely enigmatic killer in a crisp suit and a red tie who can and does wield what you can only assume is a grenade launcher in each of his nimble lonely hands.
Truer words have never been spoken. I love gratuitous violence. And I love bald men.
This one I haven’t seen though!!
Trudie — Thank you for your comment! And welcome!
sheila — Hahahahaha! Yes, truer words. I’m alls about the truth around here.
You might like this movie. I love where Roger Ebert says:
“You know what? I think he may be a virgin trained to make war, not love.”
Hahaha. There is OBVIOUS heat between these two characters — and a weird sweetness, too. He’s a killer; she’s a whore. Everything is complicated. Clearly, they’re not your everyday kind of people, but I love their relationship — as much as you get to see of it. I would have loved more of that in the movie.
And, frankly, the dude is just damn sexy.
…and I’m completely renting this now.