It’s customary, when talking about Tom Cruise, to note what an absolute weirdo he is. After all, we can hardly ignore his devotion to Scientology, the organisation that adherents consider a religion and that critics call a cult. But there’s other stuff beyond that, stuff to suggest he’s a bit of an oddball anyway. Like the insane couch-jumping on Oprah, a PR nightmare that led him to avoid all but the most controlled media exposure for over 20 years. Oh, and the… unsubstantiated gossip that swirls around the man. It all adds up to the same, rarely challenged, diagnosis: Tom Cruise is weird.
To which the only sensible response is—yes. Obviously. Of course he’s weird: you don’t achieve what’s he’s achieved if you’re ordinary. (And yes, we’ll only be talking about his professional accomplishments here, since it’s his remarkable work that reveals how truly abnormal he really is.) It takes someone very special—and “special” is another way of saying “weird”—to navigate stardom as successfully as he’s done, to work as hard as he’s done and craft such an impressive filmography.
Consider this. We’re 40 years on from Top Gun, the film that sent him stratospheric. Which means he’s been at the top—the very top—for longer than any Golden Age Hollywood star managed, whether James Stewart, John Wayne or Bette Davis. Only the now-retired Clint Eastwood reigned for longer, and you’d be unwise to bet against Cruise eventually overtaking him too.
As many old-timey stars found out the hard way, it’s not easy to extend your appeal to new generations of filmgoers. That Cruise has done it—and done it at least a couple of times—speaks of profound savviness and determination, and in quantities that few normal people are blessed with.
Of course he had certain built-in advantages, like good looks and the sort of smile that makes Hollywood casting directors go weak at the knees. But let’s not forget that they’re backed up by serious talent. It’s interesting to note the people who wanted him for their films even before his Top Gun fame. Francis Ford Coppola, a keen judge of talent, gave him an early break in The Outsiders (1983), Ridley Scott put him as the lead in Legend (1985) and Martin Scorsese cast him—quite perfectly—as the cocky young pool hustler alongside Paul Newman in The Color of Money (1986), strutting and preening around the tables and gently demonstrating to his senior co-star that the baton had been passed.
Even after Top Gun, Cruise never surrendered himself to blockbusters entirely. Unlike most A-listers—who, understandably enough, want to control how they appear on screen—Cruise has actively sought out auteurs known to have minds of their own. In fact, few actors can boast of such an illustrious list of collaborators, including Oliver Stone (Born on the Fourth of July), Steven Spielberg (Minority Report, War of the Worlds), Brian De Palma (the first Mission: Impossible).
He was an early supporter of Paul Thomas Anderson, appearing in an outrageous turn in Magnolia (1999), and he’s quite magnificent as the hitman in Michael Mann’s Collateral (2004), perhaps his best performance. Most boldly of all, he took near-enough three years out when he was at the top of his game for the protracted shooting of Eyes Wide Shut (1999), Stanley Kubrick’s swansong, submitting to hundreds of takes (apparently) without complaint—a level of humility that’s rare (weird, even) in so major a star.
He’s worked with fewer auteurs in recent years, favouring larger scale films like his globetrotting Mission: Impossible series instead. This, though, should not be read as criticism, for Mission: Impossible has been just about the most reliable movie franchise of recent years. Much of the credit deserves to go to their producer (one T Cruise). And the same is true of his non-M:I movies: Cruise might not have directed them—he has people for that—but everyone knows who’s in charge: working on (the magnificent) Top Gun: Maverick (2022), he was unhappy with the original footage and insisted on extensive re-shoots. The overwhelming response—a billion-dollar-plus gross and laudatory reviews—was ample vindication.
But time advances. He’s 64 now and has hinted that his action days might be winding down. He famously insists on doing his own stunts (which, again, is weird) but, despite his freakish willpower, his body is subject to the same ageing process as everyone else; running, jumping and falling is getting harder and he probably thinks using a stunt double is too normal.
Digger, released last week, seemed to be a change of gear, a return to working with a critically acclaimed filmmaker (here, Alejandro González Iñárritu) on a more ambitious movie than Cruise has made of late. There had been mutterings of an Oscar campaign, to bag—finally!—that elusive gold statue for his mantlepiece but, as it turns out, that’s not going to fly: Digger has been roasted by the critics and hasn’t found an audience. Inevitable cult status is probably not much comfort at the moment.
Some people have been muttering that this flop—Cruise’s first in years—shows he’s not the star he was, that his time is coming to its end. Seasoned Cruise watchers, however, will be more circumspect, all too aware of his resilience. There will be stock-taking, there will be recalibration, but it will take more than one flop to put The Cruiser on the canvas. It’s quite conceivable he’ll come back stronger than ever. If the upcoming Days of Thunder 2 (another belated sequel, this time to his 1990 car-race classic) does Top Gun: Maverick-sized business, Digger will be quickly forgotten. He may yet start directing—a long-trailed ambition, and an enticing prospect. He’s already shown he’s got excellent taste and rigorous quality control; un film de Tom Cruise could be something very special.
All of this should confirm what you already thought. Tom Cruise is, indeed, weird. And film-lovers should be very glad of it.
