From Paris With Love Movie Review

And it would certainly mention the job's most self-evident requirement: That being a secret agent means doing lots of work in secret. 

James Reece gets that. The hyper-efficient diplomatic assistant spies in his spare time--swapping out license plates, sticking bugs in embassies, that sort of thing. By definition, it's thankless work--not the sort of stuff that earns him "employee of the month" awards. But, then again, public accolades for spying sort of defeats the purpose, no?

Still, James longs to move up the espionage ladder and, after a particularly boring bug-planting operation, he begs his boss for a promotion. So his unseen boss decides to give him a shot--pairing him with his unnamed agency's best agent, Charlie Wax.

Now, when I say best in connection with Wax, I'm using the term loosely. Wax is a "top secret agent" in the same way Lady Gaga is a "decorum expert" or Nancy Grace might "ask a few quiet questions." Wax is as subtle as the Vegas Strip, as subdued as a nuclear meltdown. He can't even order dinner or park his car without killing people. And he bellows his own special catchphrase to surviving evildoers, just to make sure they remember his super-secret name: "Wax on, wax off!" he crows to them, as if Mr. Miyagi might be waiting for them back at their super-secret base. 

But his employers love him because he always gets his man, solves the case and protects the free world--or whatever's left of it when he's done. When they give him his neon plaque that reads "Super-Secret Agent of the Month," Wax will likely post the ceremony on YouTube. 'Cause that's just how this secret agent rolls. 

Perhaps From Paris With Love is not as bad as it seems. 

Perhaps its makers were making a subversive satire based on, say, how American tourists

 are seen by Europeans. Yeah, that's it. Then Wax's propensity for being loud, obnoxious and buying cheap baseball hats that say "I (heart) Paris" might have some deeper meaning. And the fact that Wax blows up cars on a crowded Parisian highway might suggest that Americans don't treat French culture with the respect it deserves. And Wax's ever-climbing body count might be a metaphor for the American fondness for to-do lists.

Do I believe this is what was meant? No. Hardly. Rather, my musings represent a painfully inane delusion--not too different, perhaps, from the delusions this film's makers must have experienced when they thought From Paris With Love was fit to be shown to an audience. Anywhere. It's a film so devoid of wit and merit that the extras Wax "slaughtered" early on might consider themselves fortunate: In the obligatory screenings, they can watch their death scenes, applaud themselves for their acting prowess and walk out of the theater to make better use of their time.

I wish I could've.