Why even a free ticket won't tempt me to watch Tom Cruise's latest Mission Impossible

New Indian Express

10-06-2025

My non-nerdy, 16-year-old nephew, who loves boom-boom flicks, emerged from Oppenheimer looking like he figured out quantum physics. "Loved it!" he declared with the fervour of a recent convert, surprising me. Oppenheimer is a three-hour dense tangle of theoretical physics, moral swamp, and men muttering gravely in rooms. Despite reading the biography, I struggled with the film. So, I asked my nephew what he liked. Pat came the answer: everything. It was only when I probed for specifics that his mouth went dry.
He hadn't necessarily been electrified by fission or Oppenheimer's tortured soul, but had been swept up in the zeitgeist, the social maelstrom that demands you adore the Officially Approved Cultural Moment. Though I didn't ask, I'm sure of what he'd be hooked to this May-June 2025: Tom Cruise.
Ah, Tom. The man who doesn't just run from danger, he courts it like it were his only true love. Every time a new Mission: Impossible parachutes into theatres, I see a similar phenomenon: audiences roar, critics bow, and the collective narrative becomes, "Did you SEE what he DID?!" The man scales cliffs! Dangles from planes! Pilots helicopters through canyons! It's undeniably impressive, a dedication bordering on the pathological.
But here's my multi-million-dollar question: Does the sheer, jaw-dropping spectacle of Tom Cruise tempting Yamraj automatically translate into great cinema? Or is it, perhaps, just a really expensive, really dangerous magic trick we are compelled to clap to just because Tom risked his life for it and makes it a point to scream that he did?
Before the torches and pitchforks come for me, I'll acknowledge our roots. Cinema was practically born doing pratfalls. Charlie Chaplin turned getting kicked into high art. Buster Keaton seemed like he was made of rubber and pure lunacy. Those original explorers of cinema risked life and limb (Keaton didn't notice a broken neck for 11 years!) for a laugh or a gasp.
But here's my point: those thrills were woven into something more. Pathos. Romance. Social commentary wrapped in slapstick: Chaplin's The Kid still makes my tissue supply run out. And remember, most of these early films were one-reelers, roughly 15 minutes long, or just over an hour (The Kid was 68 minutes, Keaton's The General: 67 minutes).
Holding attention with pure kinetic energy for a quarter of an hour or an hour is doable. But maintaining momentum for two-and-a-half hours: now that's the real mission impossible.
Think about it. What does a truly memorable action film need to succeed beyond the initial adrenaline rush? It requires an emotional drive. A reason to care for the character who is jumping off the cliff, why they're running down the Burj Khalifa, and what happens after the helicopter lands. It needs suspense that coils alongside your intestine, characters you root for or hate, a plot that isn't just connective tissue between explosions but is actually a story.
Alright, pop quiz, hotshot! (my favourite line from Speed) Think back to the last, say, five Mission: Impossible films. What comes to mind? Is it the intricate web of espionage? The heart-stopping betrayal of a trusted ally? The nuanced character arc of... anyone?
Or is it, perhaps: Cruise dangling off a plane, falling off a building, jumping on his bike off a cliff... Tom Cruise just... running!
The plot often boils down to: Tom Cruise does impossible stunts in search of something-something, while being chased by someone-someone. The setting changes. The place of the chase changes, but the story, like Tom, doesn't. Don't get me wrong, those stunts are phenomenal.
Watching Tom pilot that helicopter in Fallout was edge-of-the-seat stuff. Henry Cavill reloading his biceps mid-fight was peak action delight. But ask yourself: What else happened in that film? What were the stakes beyond "world ends"? Who were the characters beyond "person Tom needs to chase" or "person chasing Tom"? Did it resonate? Did anything... linger?
This isn't just about Mission: Impossible, though it's the current exhibit. It's a broader question in most Hollywood tentpole films: Is this spectacle-first approach what passes for good cinema today? And more importantly, is it good for cinema?
Look, I'm not trying to be the cantankerous Century Gowda passing judgments on all in Thithi. Cinema is a vast, glorious buffet in which belongs as much the brainy indie, as tear-jerkers, fart comedies, and yes, glorious, bone-crunching action films.
In fact, I adore action flicks. From the little-known The Warriors, to the famous Enter the Dragon, the initially underrated Rocky, flamboyant Predator and Mad Max, the realism of Heat and the nimbleness of Speed and Con Air, the red pill of Matrix, the bone-crushing scenes of The Raid and Ong Bak... I devoured Marvel up until the multiverse made one film look no different from the other.
Why do these films endure? Because beneath the explosions, the gunfire, the flying fists, they had heart. They had a story. They built worlds and characters I cared about.
I've never boxed, but I love Rocky for its grit, redemption, and Adrian! Neo's journey is a philosophical rabbit hole disguised in leather coats and bullet time, more relevant in today's age of AI and deepfakes than it was then. The relentless simplicity of Speed became my template as a screenwriter. The action was the icing, but the cake – the emotional core, the narrative drive – was substantial and satisfying. It made the action mean something.
Lately, however, the Mission: Impossible franchise feels increasingly like an elaborate, globe-trotting stage for Tom Cruise's increasingly insane death wish. It's less "impossible mission", more "impossible insurance premiums."
I understand the historical precedent – the Keatons and Jackie Chans who built legends on physical risk. I have immense respect for Cruise's dedication. The man is a force of nature. I've watched every BTS video, winced at every rumoured broken bone, and marvelled at his sheer commitment.
But here's the rub: Admiring the daredevilry isn't the same as endorsing it as the sole pillar of cinematic worth. Gladiators bled for the crowd's amusement, but I watch action films to escape the brutality of the real world, not to vicariously participate in potentially lethal filmmaking practices that could kill its actors.
The idea that an actor must flirt with mortality to "authenticate" a scene? That the primary marketing hook is "Come see Tom Cruise almost die!"? Sorry, count me out. It feels less like filmmaking and more like a high-stakes circus act. It feels... irresponsible. And frankly, a little ghoulish.
So, no, I won't be queuing for Mission: Impossible - Dead Reckoning Part Whatever. Not even for a free ticket. My pesky conscience won't allow it. I'm not trying to be a killjoy, but I want to advocate for cinema that aspires to be more than just a stunt reel.
I know, I know. This is cinematic heresy. An unpopular opinion shouted into the gale-force winds of a $150-million marketing blitz. But hear me out. We need perspective. We need to put things back in their proper boxes.
A film, a truly good film, is a complex equation. It's multiple emotions sparking, stories intertwining, ideas colliding, all coalescing into a cohesive whole that captures our imagination, engages our intellect, and holds our attention, not just through spectacle, but through substance. That's the real high-wire act. That's the genuine Mission Impossible.
And marketing blitz? Studios routinely spend more on promoting a film than making it. Their agenda is simple: bombard you, hypnotise you, make the film unmissable through sheer aural and visual dominance. But our agenda – yours and mine – should be simple: like or dislike a film based on its actual merits. Our focus must be on the story, the acting, the direction, the craft – not the poster size or the number of times Cruise appears in your Instagram feed.
But are we doing that? Or are we getting swept away in the tsunami of hype? Are we thinking for ourselves, feeling our own genuine reactions, or are we passively absorbing the pre-packaged emotions sold to us, mistaking the pizzaz for the pizza? Marketing is just doing its job. But our job is to demand and appreciate the actual pizza.
Would you eat something utterly foul just because it was wrapped in gold foil and advertised by a dancing dragon? Then why do we so often accept cinematic fast food just because it's been supersized and deep-fried in marketing dollars?
Don't mistake this for Tom Cruise slander. I admire the man's dedication. If I had even a fraction of his work ethic, I'd be a GOAT too. His commitment to giving audiences a visceral experience is undeniable. He is, in many ways, the last of a dying breed (hopefully not literally dying, Tom, please be careful).
But my point, wrapped in as much wit as I can muster, remains stubbornly simple: Death-defying stunts are breathtaking. They are audacious. They are worthy of applause. But they are not, and never can be, a substitute for the equally difficult, equally vital art of good filmmaking.
That's the real cliff we need cinema to scale. The rest is just gravity.