As the late Henny Youngman might have said, if this is what the serial killer genre has come to, take my life, please! Perhaps the most derivative Hollywood serial killer thriller since, um, well, since the last one, Taking Lives involves Angelina Jolie’s pseudo-psychic F.B.I. agent (she lies in victims’ graves to “understand” what happened to them, à la Red Dragon) as she tracks a murderous Canadian drifter who assumes the identities of his fallen prey. From its Seven-inspired opening credit sequence and grime-infused cinematography to its gimmicky villain (highly erudite, loves to play games with the cops), “guess whodunit” plot structure and sexual link between the detective and the deviant, D.J. Caruso’s film is just a ridiculous, rehashed patchwork quilt made from old decaying movie parts. Since there are only two reasonable suspects for the crimes – and one is clearly a red herring – the film eventually shifts its focus to its heroine’s immense lips and undulating unclothed chest. Nothing inherently wrong with that, but with a decent cast including Ethan Hawke, Kiefer Sutherland, Gena Rowlands, Olivier Martinez and Tchêky Karyo, it would have been nice if the filmmakers had come up with at least one narrative surprise that didn’t involve Jolie’s T&A. As it is, Taking Lives won’t kill you, but it will steal precious hours you’ll never have back.