Meanwhile, cars chase each other really fast through the meandering streets of Italian medieval towns, and many, many people get blammed with bullets. The excessively cluttered plot also involves manipulative INTERPOL agents and Morgan Freeman, who shows up, allegedly hilariously, as Bryce’s star-bodyguard dad, now ostensibly retired to a villa in Tuscany. The villain this time around is a disgruntled Greek magnate named Aristotle Papadopolous-played by Antonio Banderas, in an array of brocade jackets that enliven the proceedings at least slightly-who’s angry at the rest of Europe and wants to show it who’s boss. But what follows is so dispiritingly bad that, rather than providing the salutary effects of recharging your tired brain, it saps your will to live. This alone could be the preamble to an adequate brainless action comedy. Darius needs Bryce’s help, and he’s sent her to fetch him. (When his therapist, after several tries, finally suggests a vacation spot to his liking, his face turns radiant: “Capri-like the pants!”) But before he’s had time to settle by the water with a copy of The Secret, Darius’s con-artist wife, Sonia (Salma Hayek), shows up out of nowhere, guns-and cleavage-blazing. On the advice of his therapist, Bryce has opted to take a holiday, hoping to make peace with his new, not-a-bodyguard self. Reynolds and Jackson return: Reynolds’ anxiety-riddled deadpan goofball Michael Bryce is still disgraced, having failed to protect an important client-it was Darius Kincaid (Jackson) himself who ostensibly caused the man’s death. The Hitman’s Wife’s Bodyguard is more of the same-yet less. Jackson and Ryan Reynolds as, respectively, a bad-ass hit man and the has-been bodyguard assigned to protect him, was a 2017 summer hit, the kind of movie you shuffle into when you need to get away from the heat, your spouse, your day-to-day woes. The Hitman’s Bodyguard, directed by Patrick Hughes and starring Samuel L. Do you really want to fritter away your hard-earned time-wasting currency on The Hitman’s Wife’s Bodyguard?

We all have only a finite amount of time to waste, not just through a summer but throughout our lifetimes. But the act of not thinking is its own act of consciousness. Like mirrored sunglasses and beer koozies, the brainless summer entertainment is a warm-weather staple.

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