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Less a movie than a filmed pitch—“They’re married, they’re both spies, but neither knows it!”—Mr. and Mrs. Smith manages to offer even less than its threadbare premise. A Maxim-style Brad Pitt and weirdly poreless, pixilated-looking Angelina Jolie slowly tumble to the fact that they’re both happily sociopathic assassins for competing spy agencies. After some initial tussling, and Pitt pouting when he learns her kill count is 360 to his measly 65, they fall in love all over again while killing hundreds of anonymous bounty hunters. At first, we’re confused by the frame-littering of Christian ephemera—at one point, our chipper killers show up in jesus freak Ts for reasons unknown—but as the body count mounts, the design element’s omnipresence becomes clear. Smith is the perfect Bush-era True Lies: Mass murder is cool as long as there’s a cross on your neck and nothing in your brain. Talk about getting the movies we deserve.