The Hitman's Bodyguard

Hitperson nobility chaotically clashes on the way to trial after two bitter rivals begrudgingly team up to ensure evidence is produced that will incriminate a tyrant.

In Patrick Hughes's The Hitman's Bodyguard.

Independently affixed, one smoothly flowing while the other meticulously researches every operation's specialized nanoaspects, their contradictory approaches enraging the more assiduously inclined, much to his immortally gifted interlocutor's amusement, the bodies reflexively pile up as the bromance intensifies, discourses of the huggable ironically embracing acutely accented vitriol, voice two highly successful underground phenoms, unaccustomed to negotiating viscid bonds of true friendship.

Because they're usually out killing people.

And rarely have time.

To love.

The tyrant's henchpeople at least try to make things difficult, even going so far as to instigate the best most intelligently and intricately edited (Jake Roberts) high speed chase I've seen in years, involving boats in Amsterdam, plus Salma Hayek (Sonia Kincaid) versatilely delivers, and Elodie Yung (Amelia Roussel) tantalizes with less bravado.

The international policing community is betrayed.

Vengeance pontificates while reacting condemnatorially.

Just tell her you love her.

This joyful Christmas/Festive season.

So close to entering the realm of the cult classic, one day, perhaps it will, I don't know, but, although both Samuel L. Jackson (Darius Kincaid) and Ryan Reynolds (Michael Bryce) captivatingly execute, casting by Elaine Grainger and Marianne Stanicheva, I couldn't help but wish Robert Rodriguez or Quentin Tarantino had edited the script, which is oddly still a bit light considering (a chummy bloodbath for the entire family?), although there are moments of comedic genius, Reynolds uncharacteristically laying it down to a bartender before reentering the fray for one, and the line, "he ruined the [phrase] mother fucker."

Can't one of these films that torches a car, or, building, have a self-reflexive moment where the controversial ponder their consequent environmental impact?

A sequel seems apt since Jackson and Reynolds work so well together.

I would suggest not bringing them closer together as it progresses.

Rather, I'd replace the tendency to strengthen familial or bromantic feelings in round two with a two minute scene, after some pyrotechnic shenanigans, where they actually stop talking and just stare at one another for awhile, their looks encapsulating thirty awkward cheesy moments of convivial intrigue, to give it more of an edge, make it more furious, more vital.

That's what I'd do.