Thursday, March 19, 2009

Mr. & Mrs. Smith (2005)



Dark red morello cherries in light syrup spooned on to vanilla bean Breyers, bright pink spills onto drugstore plastic table cloth, white painted wood chair, linoleum floor.

On the surface, a recycled domestic drama of marriage dry limping from corporate careerism with same pseudo-subversion of 1983 masters of the universe Trading Places denouement: surprise surprise, money does buy happiness after all.

Not small kitchen coffee can coinage--bent black wood Danish barstools, Carrara island, Bertazzoni 8 burner range, Gagg double wall oven, Northland 72" stainless steel wrap door side-by-side furnish 40 x 40 breccia oniciata floored Williams-Sonoma gallery, showered by Smiths' gleeful ketchup in cheek high caliber squirt-out.

Phantasmagoria of the interior decorator's ars erotica as in Pitt, Norton, Bonham Carter ménage à trois égale ménage à un Fight Club compels scale of extreme s/m pleasure unmatchable outside octagon of Ultimate Fighter 1 Finale, Griffin v. Bonnar--Brangelina foreplay Muay Thai style.

More darkly, through another homage to 1970s Dirty Harry vigilantism we defend terror to its last ticking IED, as long as the thugs are multi-millionaire A-list white beauties with a couple of Jags in the garage.

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