Salma Hayek Makes Hitman’s Wife’s Bodyguard Better Than the Original, But Still Can’t Make It Good

A dumb movie that doesn’t know it’s dumb is almost always worse than a dumb movie loudly and proudly proclaiming its stupidity from the rooftops. There’s something endearing, or at least productively straightforward for the filmmakers, when everything’s on the same page—even if that page looks like Jack Torrance just got finished typing the F-word over and over again. The Hitman’s Bodyguard falls into the former category while its sequel, Hitman’s Wife’s Bodyguard adapts to the latter. It doesn’t make it any good, but it does make it an improvement over the original in every way—even if those improvements simply upgrade it to a hacky action/comedy from a hacky and tonally disjointed action/comedy.

At least, they do when returning director Patrick Hughes steers things into full-blown Archer/Kingsman super-spy silliness after a grating introduction walks us through some key franchise changes. The first? Badass by-the-book bodyguard extraordinaire Michael Bryce (Ryan Reynolds) is a wimp now. He’s no longer just the stick-in-the-mud foil to loose cannon hitman Darius Kincaid (Samuel L. Jackson), but a sad, lonely, inept loser reconfiguring the central comic dynamic away from its Midnight Run riff. The second? Darius’ wife, Sonia (Salma Hayek), a criminal in her own right, has been upgraded to the main trio…if the title didn’t already make this clear. This addition also serves to reinforce the film’s commitment to comedy, as she and Darius are constantly scream-swearing, shooting or stealing porn-intensity quickies around the now-timid Michael.

Naturally, these three maroons get swept up in an international action plot that’s details are as bare as Sonia’s neckline. All you really need to know is that they have to stop the big baddie, played by Antonio Banderas whom the movie tries to pass off as a Greek mogul (named Aristotle, I suppose, as an additional middle finger to the very concept of logic). But even he, alongside Frank Grillo’s sloppy Interpol agent who’s handling the main trio on what becomes a bit of a mission, just feels like garish set decoration. Banderas at least sinks his teeth into the silliness, but Grillo isn’t much in the way of actionless acting—especially as the semi-straight man. Really, though, it barely matters who’s on screen: Everyone’s always yelling and something is usually blowing up. The sound design turns into sort of a dick-measuring contest between the actors’ vocal cords and the chaotic sound effects, which means this sucker is LOUD and hard to comprehend.

But even that doesn’t exactly diminish what the film’s bringing to the table. As the three galivant across Europe, Sonia and Darius leaving chaos (and usually an injured Michael) in their wake, Hitman’s Wife’s Bodyguard revisits all the jokes of the first and moves on to bigger, brasher gags. While these aren’t broken up by cloying and dissonant heart-to-hearts about love like in the first film—which makes the movie’s two hours move at a much faster clip once it gets past the half-hour mark—they’re still almost all jokes done before and done better by every action-comedy that ever took aim at 007. Michael is hit by many cars, and accidentally takes strong drugs. Jackson has a Mace Windu reference. Morgan Freeman shows up as a Family Guy-like stunt casting punchline. The main novelty, and the film’s primary pleasure, is the commitment of its cast to its bloody, profane vapidity.