Mission inedible

Noel Vera

Hello, Tom.

Your two previous big-screen missions as IMF operative Ethan Hunt
have been quite successful. Your first, directed by Brian De Palma,
showed a breezy disregard for the complex script (by legendary
Hollywood screenwriter Robert Towne ("Chinatown")) that at the same
time managed to be lucid and exciting (never mind that, as die-
hard "Mission Impossible" fans point out, you trashed the premise of
Bruce Geller's original TV series by putting a premium on maverick
adventuring over closely coordinated teamwork). Your second, also
written by Towne, was more openly emotional (a response to
complaints that the first was cold-hearted and difficult to follow);
as directed by John Woo, it sacrificed plot twists for Woo's
signature action sequences, complete with slow-motion axe kicks,
eyepopping motorcycle stunts, a pair of blazing handguns, the flight
of fluttering doves.

On your third outing you have carefully considered your next choice
of director, having previously discarded Joe Carnahan ("Narc") and
settled for J.J. Abrams, creator of the hit TV series "Alias"
and "Lost," on his big-screen debut. Abrams, who has admitted that
the original series influenced his own "Alias," must have seemed the
perfect director for this movie. His screenplay posits a more
domesticated, more human Hunt, one who has found true love in Julia
(Michelle Monaghan), and is willing to propose, marry, have a baby
with her--this closely mirroring your real-life engagement and
impregnation of starlet Katie Holmes. Perhaps the only details that
differentiate your onscreen story from your real-life one are 1) You
do not jump up and down on a sofa, shrieking about true love, and 2)
you do not offer to eat your child's placenta (something, it must be
pointed out, that the mother and not father traditionally eats, to
reduce postpartum depression).

The type of double life your character leads--family man who is or
formerly was a secret agent--is hardly original in movies, of
course; James Cameron's 1994 spy thriller "True Lies" turned on it
(and so did its source material, the 1991 French comedy "La
Totale"). Alfred Hitchcock used a similar storyline as far back
as "Sabotage" (1936), and did brilliant variations on it (ordinary
man who by force of circumstance becomes secret agent) as late
as "North by Northwest" (1959). Hitchcock's masterful chase picture
sparked jokes off anyone and anything, including its debonair
everyman hero (Cary Grant, of course) and its own ludicrous premise;
Abrams' "MI:3" asks us to take his premise largely straight, no
chaser. We must follow your character as he leaves his wife (who
believes her husband is a highway traffic analyst) to rescue
Lindsey, a former protégé (Keri Russell), return, leave again to
kidnap nefarious supervillain Owen Davian (Philip Seymour Hoffman)
and much later steal what is mysteriously called the Rabbit Foot
(the picture's MacGuffin); perhaps the only quality time you
newlyweds are able to spend together is in an extended opening
torture sequence, where Davian fires an explosive device up your
capacious nose, then threatens to shoot Julie in the head with a
handgun. Not what you'd call a good basis for a solid and lasting
relationship.

It's instructive to compare the three directors' styles, and how
they attack the material at hand: De Palma in refusing to take the
story seriously shoots the film in a series of voluptuous long
takes, coherently staged and edited--a refreshing throwback to an
older style of thriller filmmaking that recalls Hitchcock (his
favorite source of inspiration, to put it politely), and stands out
as an anomaly in this age of music-video flash. Woo ignores
narrative altogether and goes for operatic high points regardless of
what's happening, and why (it's said that Woo had Towne fashion a
plot that would string together a series of action sequences he
would like to shoot); his action is impressive in a different way,
using slow-motion to keep the combat comprehensible, and a
restlessly tracking camera to emphasize graceful body movement (De
Palma's weapon of choice is sharp wits and the esoteric gimmick (an
exploding gum), Woo's an intricate mix of gunplay and martial-arts
choreography). Abrams, apparently in love with his superspy/husband
concept and with the idea of finally directing a bona-fide "Mission
Impossible" picture, fails to give the material the ironic distance
it deserves--he takes it too seriously and asks the audience to take
it too seriously when the whole thing is too absurd to take
seriously; the core of the picture--the very reason the production
was initiated in the first place, the action sequences--get short
shrift. They're shot too close, in a shaky handheld style, and so
confusingly edited that the audience can barely follow what's going
on (after a little over two hours of this (the picture clocks in at
a flabby 126 minutes), people may have stopped caring altogether).

If there's at all a saving grace it's Philip Seymour Hoffman. From
opening scene onwards his Davian dominates your Hunt the way King
Kong dominated the island natives; even trussed up and completely in
Hunt's power he faces you in such a way that there's no doubt who's
in charge (he seems to be saying (without uttering a word) "I've got
an Oscar statue and you don't"). Abrams wrote the character that
way, of course, but Hoffman makes him deadly convincing, suggesting
that the contrast between his jowly frame and your Pilates-ized body
is the contrast between a grizzly bear and a boy scout. Hoffman even
manages to wring extra juice out of throwaway moments: recalling how
he implanted Lindsey with one of his explosive capsules he
says "that was--" eyes narrowing as he looks for the word "--fun."
Hoffman's performance in a nutshell; he almost makes the movie
worthwhile. Almost.

The same can't be said of the others. You and Abrams assembled a
talented, good-looking cast--Russell, Monaghan, Maggie Q, Laurence
Fishburne, Jonathan Rhys Meyers (who was excellent in Woody
Allen's "Match Point)--and largely waste them (only Simon Pegg as a
high-tech geek and Ving Rhames as a brotherly IMF veteran make any
real impression). As for your performance, it could be politely
described as belonging to the 'flaring nostrils' school of acting,
with one wide-eyed expression for all occasions, and tense facial
muscles to indicate profound emotion. To be fair you are an
excellent sprinter who shows this fleet-footed skill in the picture
(over and over again, unfortunately, to the point of monotony); and
instead of shrieking in your thin, pipsqueak voice at moments of
high drama you have resorted to breathless whispering--not a big
improvement, but an improvement nevertheless.

Your mission, if you decide to accept it, is this: go home. Stop
making movies. Judging from the critics' lackluster response and the
disappointing boxoffice your career as a superstar is more or less
over (it wasn't much in the first place; you were canny enough to
pick some of the best and most promising filmmakers--Stanley
Kubrick, Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, Steven Spielberg,
Paul Thomas Anderson, Neil Jordan, John Woo, Ridley Scott, among
others--to work with (they in turn, apparently couldn't do much with
you)). Go home, lie low, take a break; maybe for a few years,
preferably for the rest of your life.

This tape, much like your career has already done, will self-
destruct in five seconds.

(First published in Businessworld 5/19/06)

(Comments? Email me at noelbotevera@...)