But they toil in the name of blandness. Could I have Summer Movie Fatigue one film in? A hail of bullets and a megastar falling out of the sky just seem part of the forecast. The filmmakers vowed this film would turn the spy-movie on its ear. But I didn't see a musical number anywhere.
If the pulse never quite races, the mind does boggle, especially during a demolition sequence on a suspended highway, complete with missiles, helicopters, and fighter jets. But did Abrams mean for it to evoke battles in Fallujah? Another time, Cruise writes out a long series of numbers on a window: Are those the projected box-office grosses?
Abrams does pledge familiar, seemingly contractual allegiance to Cruise's fitness. His T-shirts have short-short sleeves that reveal quivering veins in his biceps. His indestructible jeans relentlessly flatter his fanny. And the world's streets and pavements clear so he can sprint like a juiced-up cheetah. As usual, Cruise gives it his all. I love this man. But, sadly, not once during this movie was I moved to attack a sofa in his name.
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