“What has this man from Illinois created–I ask myself, closing the pages of his book–that his episodes of the conquest of another planet fill me with such terror and solitude?”
~ Jorge Luis Borges on Ray Bradbury’s The Martian Chronicles
“An age which is incapable of poetry is incapable of any kind of literature except the cleverness of a decadence. The boys can say anything, their scenes are almost tiresomely neat, they have all the facts and all the answers, but they are little men who have forgotten how to pray.”
~ Raymond Chandler, in a letter to Charles W. Morton, dated January 5, 1957
David Arnold’s score gives way to reverberating guitar riffs as Quantum of Solace shifts its locale from Siena to rainy London. Director Marc Forster worked closely with Arnold on Quantum of Solace, providing Arnold with samples of sounds and musical styles that he wanted Arnold to embed into the film’s score. The result of their collaboration is, far and away, Arnold’s strongest work on the Bond films. Arnold’s affection for senseless bombast is in evidence now and again during the film’s setpieces, but, for the most part, this is a texturally varied score that applies its effects with precision.
Bond and M’s meeting in Mitchell’s apartment unfolds with Quantum of Solace‘s typical impatience with any exchanges that could be considered expository, but there are some nice touches here as M expresses her horror and exasperation in being caught up in a conspiracy about which she knows practically nothing. Throughout the Craig era, governments and their institutions consistently prove to be too myopic to identify the true threats, allowing the villains (who are, Skyfall‘s Silva aside, sinister venture capitalists out to manipulate world events to their own gain) to move about in plain sight and infiltrate the corridors of power. The throwaway joke here about M not knowing her traitorous bodyguard all that well–she notes that she gifted Mitchell an ashtray, and Bond deadpans his reply: “I don’t think he smoked”–is a clever way of reinforcing M’s own tendency towards this short-sightedness.
MI6 headquarters has moved locations since Casino Royale and is now housed in Frobisher Crescent. No reason is ever given for this transition, and we might reconcile the films together by speculating that the Vauxhall Cross offices from Casino Royale were being remodeled (after all, they look a bit different when Skyfall rolls around). Really, though, this is simply inconsistency extending from a general indifference toward aesthetic continuity. Dennis Gassner’s design for the MI6 offices is sleek and highly technological, all sterile glass and steel, dispensing with any hint of traditional British elegance and placing MI6 on the cutting edge of technological innovation.
Quantum of Solace employs technology much better than any of the other Craig films, abandoning a sense of verisimilitude for advanced computer systems with complex interfaces that may be somewhat nonsensical but have a beauty in their design (they were conceived by MK12, the same group that designed the film’s title sequence). The touchscreen table used in the briefing scene here nicely embeds a great deal of visual information into an otherwise fairly dry exchange.
Tanner’s strange non-sequitur that occurs just before they enter the briefing room (“Not in the mood”) might suggest that some connective tissue was cut out of the scene. If so, it’s not hard to believe. Quantum of Solace‘s production was notoriously frantic, and anecdotes shared by those present during parts of Quantum of Solace‘s scattershot shoot have indicated that a substantial amount of footage was left on the cutting room floor. Still, once you’ve seen the film enough times to keep up with the information being presented in this briefing scene, the scene depicts a clever–if sensationalized–riff on actual investigative techniques, allowing MI6 to trace money back to another Quantum agent.
The trail leads to Port-au-Prince, and here are the broad strokes of what unfolds in this, the film’s most preposterously overcomplicated section: Bond kills a Quantum assassin and takes over his identity, and then stumbles into a meeting with Camille, who turns out to have been the original assassin’s target, having been lured into a trap after trying to investigate the actions of Dominic Greene, with whom she’s been having a relationship, and who wanted her dead after he discovered her betrayal. After Bond and Camille’s meeting turns sour, Bond discovers that the assassin he killed had a partner, takes him out, and then pulls some smartphone gymnastics to get a line on Dominic Greene after following Camille to him. The film furthermore introduces us to secondary villain General Medrano, a focal point in Greene’s plans to start a coup in Bolivia in order to get rights to some seemingly empty land in the desert, and who also was responsible for the death of Camille’s entire family. Some of this connects in this whirlwind of exposition, much of it doesn’t. Structural clarity is not this film’s gift.
It all begins well enough, though; Bond’s fight with Slate in the Hotel Desalines might very well be the film’s highlight. The frantic editing actually works here, maintaining enough clarity to maintain tension. In fact, it’s better composed than any of the hand-to-hand combat in the Greengrass Bourne films to which it owes a significant stylistic debt. The sound design accentuates the frantic choreography, ensuring that every inelegant blow registers with wince-inducing force.
Bond impatiently waiting for Slate to pass on greatly exceeds any of Casino Royale‘s numerous attempts to demonstrate just how dehumanizing Bond’s duties can be. There isn’t another death scene in the entire Bond series that has the same existential sting. Quantum of Solace sadly does not showcase Craig’s performance with the same attentiveness that Casino Royale did (whatever else you could say about Campbell’s direction on the film, he knew when to hold on Craig’s face), but this is one moment where the film indulges Craig’s gift for internalized acting.
The ensuing conversation with the hotel desk clerk is not particularly notable, but it does serve as a nice showcase for how odd Quantum of Solace‘s impatient editing can be. This simple exchange leaps from shot to shot with no discernible purpose.
I’m very fond of Olga Kurylenko’s Camille, even though she is, on occasion, ill-served by the film. Camille has a narrative and psychology that exists outside of Bond’s own storyline, which can’t quite be said of Casino Royale‘s Vesper Lynd. Starting with Camille’s impatient “Get in” and Bond’s somewhat befuddled response, Bond and Camille have a very blunt, direct relationship. This first meeting is far too disorienting for its own good–the plotting is just too intricate here to let the characters become the focal point of the scene–but there’s still something appealing about having their first meeting end with Camille attempting to put a bullet in Bond’s head.
When Camille pulls some fast car maneuvers to obstruct her pursuer’s path, a truck ends up spilling its load of coffins all over the street, a casual, implementation of the death imagery that has naturally recurred throughout the franchise. When Bond meets up with the same henchman a few moments later, he flips the henchman’s bike, a moment executed with great visual flair. Alas, Bond’s verbal comeback (“You were supposed to shoot her!” / “Well, I missed!”) isn’t exactly a model of wit, though this script will have far clunkier attempts at humor.
Throughout Quantum of Solace, M continually scolds Bond for killing potential sources of information, picking up on her “big picture” rant from Casino Royale, but it’s unclear whether or not we’re actually meant to agree with her. Yes, the film will hint that Bond has become something of a loose canon, but it also exonerates his actions by putting him in situations where it’s either his life or his opponent’s.
Dominic Greene and Camille meeting by the docks ranks among the worst-written scenes in any Bond movie. At the very least, it’s the most bizarrely elliptical; reading the scene in transcript form is even more baffling than watching it play out on-screen.
Unlike Mr. White (there’s a weird, unremarked upon feature of the Quantum organization having many members with color-based surnames: White, Greene, Slate), Greene never seems particularly threatening–he’s always shielding himself behind the organization he represents–though he clearly has a sadist’s temperament and loves to pontificate. Amalric plays him as a man always caught up in his own mental calculations, as though he’s sizing everyone up around him to see where he stands. (One nice little touch is that when Camille first bursts in to confront him, Greene has been goofing off, toying with paper and stamps like a child.)
Greene’s primary henchman, Elvis, seemingly functions as little more than an odd running gag. Every moment that showcases him has been designed to emphasize just how ineffectual he is, climaxing with his cartoonish demise during the film’s climactic battle. I’m not certain any of these moments properly land–they always feel like strangely edited non-sequiturs–but it’s very consistent, starting with his ineffectual scolding of the guard.
General Medrano arrives on the scene, and he has a level of menace Greene and Elvis don’t. That said, he’s also much less interesting than the Quantum cabal, a more flatly literal kind of villain distinguished only by his predatory instincts. He’s one of the more repulsive characters in the franchise, but all he has to define him is his own appetite for abuse, which the film pushes to exploitative extremes.
Quantum of Solace has a much stronger political consciousness than the other Craig Bond pictures, and it’s in evidence as Medrano and Greene discuss the economics of these struggling South American countries. Quantum of Solace depicts the inhabitants of these countries as the victims of predatory political and economic powers, and we’ll come to find that Bond’s own government will prove to be complicit in Quantum’s planned destabilization of Bolivia. Throughout the film, Forster takes a break from story-driven sequences to simply showcase the victims of these sinister machinations; one of these stretches occurs immediately after the boat chase, as Bond drives to the airport. These people are anonymous, part of the background, but simply showing the squalor of their lives is something of a radical moment for a Bond picture.
Little good can be said about the boat chase. Many Bond action sequences have been lackluster, but no others are this staggeringly ineffectual. The suspenseful build-up to the chase itself works pretty well (and features a very fine motorcycle stunt, to boot), but once Bond grabs Camille off of Medrano’s boat, the chase achieves the strange distinction of being utterly lethargic and overly frantic at the same time as boats roar around a space with little sense of geography. The inscrutably edited climactic beat, involving the use of anchor to destabilize the last remaining boat pursuing Bond and Camille, squanders what otherwise might be a decent concluding stunt.
After rescuing Camille, who inadvertently confirm Bond’s suspicion during the boat chase that Greene is the next link in the chain, Bond callously abandons the now-unconscious Camille with an attempt at a throwaway Connery-esque one-liner (“She’s seasick”). As always, Craig’s Bond cares more passionately about the thrill of the hunt than he does anything else.
Mission: Impossible – Fallout marks the first time a Mission: Impossible director has returned to direct a follow-up installment, though writer/director Christopher McQuarrie has been a major contributor to this series as far back as Ghost Protocol, on which he served as writer. Recognizing that this film series was originally intended to function as a kind of director showcase, McQuarrie decided to vary his stylistic approach for Fallout. While the preceding two entries were characterized by a kind of bouncy energy, for Fallout, McQuarrie has decided to borrow the aesthetic of Christopher Nolan’s blockbusters.
McQuarrie is a better craftsman on a nuts-and-bolts level than Nolan; McQuarrie’s action sequences have a clarity and meticulousness that has always eluded the latter. Still, Fallout so often lacks the vividness and force of an actual Nolan blockbuster. The script and production design and cinematography and score blatantly evoke the work of Nolan’s collaborators–there are too many nods to the Nolan Batman films to count, including a League of Shadows-y cabal of villains calling themselves “The Apostles,” and a climax set in the icy mountains of Asia that recalls the icy vistas of Batman Begins–without capturing its force and scope, often reducing sequences to a pervasive brownish-grayishness backed by a numbing score. There’s still a sense of proper spectacle here (among other things, Fallout makes better use of prominent world landmarks than any of the recent Bond films), but the imitation-Nolan lacquer deadens the material.
Indeed, the textures and structures of Nolan’s films, messy and frustrating though they often are, extend from conviction. Nolan constructs grandiose, blunt-force expressions of his own secular mysticism, for which humanity’s transcendence (or failure to attain it) is always the greatest concern. The only transcendence with which Fallout is concerned is the transcendence of Tom Cruise.
The series has always been, to one extent or another, about Cruise himself, but it was only two films prior, on Ghost Protocol, that Cruise’s Ethan Hunt character truly found his groove. There, Hunt was formed into a charismatic cipher, a monastic hero driven by sheer will and determination. It’s an effective angle, but it offers little room for development; its sequel, Rogue Nation, didn’t really develop the idea as much as it forcefully reiterated it. Fallout does the same, but misguidedly tries to mine Hunt’s internal life for drama, punctuating the film with Hunt’s bland nightmares and monotonous speeches about why Hunt does what he does. Hunt is a thin avatar, and the character can’t (and shouldn’t be forced to) sustain this kind of inquiry. His headspace will never be as interesting as his feats of strength.
Those feats are certainly impressive, and Fallout‘s most satisfying, focused stretch begins with an all-timer: a breathtaking HALO jump that one-ups the memorable aerial sequence from Moonraker. From there, the film settles into a tense groove, becoming, for the next few scenes, a vicious and taut thriller that echoes the John Wick films while surpassing them in lushness and narrative intrigue. It’s no coincidence that this satisfying stretch of the film foregrounds Henry Cavill and Vanessa Kirby, both of whom have much more vivid and compelling relationships with Cruise’s Hunt than any of the series’ returning ensemble.
As with McQuarrie’s prior Mission: Impossible feature, Rogue Nation, Fallout loses its way the more it tries to integrate narrative tissue and characters from the prior films. This series has never been narratively satisfying enough to merit the construction of a true series mythology, and the more characters are added into the mix, the more it seems that these characters are saddled with uninspiring material while Hunt gets to do the truly showstopping stuff. (This becomes a significant issue during Fallout‘s helicopter climax, which fails to build momentum because of the constant cutting back to the rest of the ensemble, none of whom are doing anything anywhere near as interesting.)
To its credit, Fallout does seem to recognize that it is the conclusion of a certain trajectory, though it naturally leaves the door wide open for more shenanigans. With any luck, whoever directs the next one will bring the frisson of personal vision back to the series; it has been absent since John Woo directed his installment, and I miss it.
Bernardo Bertolucci’s Novecento (more widely known as 1900) is a marvelously insane film, as vital as it is unsubtle. Bertolucci’s images always carry more charge than the dramatic and thematic constructs he uses as a foundation for them, and, in this regard, Novecento, shot by the legendary Vittorio Storaro, offers an embarrassment of riches.
Since watching it, I have been thinking about how much I enjoy sustained viewing experiences. Novecento has a runtime of over five hours (and, in its original cut, was actually released as two films). With any film of that length, your investment naturally ebbs and flows, and classic cinematic epics were designed in ways to accommodate that, to allow your attention to drift and to circle back to the object of your attention.
I can enjoy a film like Novecento and still walk away emotionally and intellectually energized, but most recent two-and-a-half hour blockbusters exhaust me. Our recent blockbusters pummel you with stimulation, desperate to keep you immersed.
I am reminded of a quote from Raúl Ruiz, taken from his Poetics of Cinema 2:
“There are those who believe that the best thing that can happen is for us to be fascinated by a film from beginning to end. Hence, they believe detachment is useless and boring. There is an expression that is widely used by film fabricators in Hollywood: ‘When you lose your spectator (that is, when you are no longer fascinating him), you lose him forever.’ According to this criterion, detachment is not only unnecessary but also dangerous. It’s not what I think. I have a few reasons to believe that detachment is indispensable, and not only so that we may apprehend the film rationally–we already know that reason doesn’t have a good name in the practice of art–but so as to experience the film’s events in their full complexity. We mustn’t forget that to experience a work of art is not simply letting oneself be fascinated by it, a mere falling in love with it, but rather it’s understanding the process of falling in love. For this one needs the freedom to move away from the loved object in order to return to it freely. The amorous encounter with the work of art is a practice that can be summarized in the following formula: ‘To love renders one intelligent,’ which certainly contradicts the formula which states being in love is more like being hit on the head by a club.”
The opening of The Lost World is, by some measure, the best sequence in any of the Jurassic Park films, our purest glimpse of Spielberg the Sadist since his camera watched dispassionately as a young girl was dragged beneath the waves by an unseen menace at the start of Jaws.
Jaws presents a vision of nature that is not just indifferent, but opposed, to humanity. Civilization only extends as far as the shoreline. The thrust of The Lost World is similar. Its Isla Sorna is a hostile space, a space out of time where prehistoric monsters roam free. To dare to journey there is to put yourself on the menu.
Here, the fodder is a young girl, brought to the island by extremely wealthy parents on a cruise. Spielberg spares us the undoubtedly horrifying images as she’s pecked to pieces by dinosaurs, but he lets us hear her screams and see the terrified face of her mother. The film then hilariously and chillingly smash cuts from the mother’s scream to Ian Malcolm (Jeff Goldblum) yawning in front of a poster in a subway station, as human-made an environment as has ever existed.
These are the film’s two worlds, and The Lost World suggests that regardless of which realm invades the other, the outcome won’t be good for humanity. Even those with good intentions, the environmentalists sent to protect this dinosaur paradise, are at risk; if you fix the broken leg of a baby Tyrannosaurus, you’re still dealing with a Tyrannosaurus.
In the film’s giddy monster movie coda, Spielberg unleashes the T-Rex on San Diego. To the T-Rex, the modern city looks like just another territory to conquer, its swimming pools serving as new watering holes, humanity’s domesticated canines making for easy prey. As it effortlessly prowls through the streets, it becomes comically clear that the king of the dinosaurs could easy become the king of the metropolis, a dark echo of the original film’s declaration that “life finds a way.”
Before Tom Cruise reworked Mission: Impossible into a cinematic showcase for his talents, Mission: Impossible was a television series, and a very good one. Created by Bruqce Geller, Mission: Impossible rode to success on the wave of 1960s spymania. It took a little inspiration from Jules Dassin’s heist film, Topkapi, offering a new, complicated challenge each week for its team–the Impossible Missions Force–to tackle and overcome. While the show had a recurrent cast of characters, each episode was driven less by its characters than the nature of the mission–often sketched in hazy terms during the episode’s opening moments–with each episode deriving its charge from the surprises present in watching the expert team maneuvering past any obstacles. At its height, the show was tremendously clever, and it had a groove all its own courtesy of Lalo Schifrin’s unforgettable music.
That music would be the one major element of the series to successfully make its way into every installment of the blockbuster film series of the same name (although none of the film composers who rearranged it could give it anywhere near the same punch that Schifrin did), though, at the start, its relationship to the television series was more discernible. The first of the movies, Mission: Impossible (1996), functioned as as a quasi-sequel to the original television series, albeit with a revisionist bent. Filmmaker Brian De Palma, whose aptitude for clockwork suspense sequences made him a natural fit for the material, was given the task of reshaping the property into a star vehicle for Cruise. The suspenseful opening of the film introduces a version of the TV show’s team, led by an aging Jim Phelps (Jon Voight, taking on the role originated by Peter Graves), only to memorably eliminate them all one-by-one during a mission-gone-bad. Young Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise) survives, and is subsequently identified by the CIA as a traitor. He goes on the run and fights to prove his innocence. Using this framework, De Palma made the series into a vehicle for his own skepticism of the American state, which Mission: Impossible portrays as both deeply sinister and comically inept. Hunt’s journeys through the underworld lead him to the revelation that the true foe is Phelps himself, no longer a patriot, having been so disillusioned by the end of the Cold War that he’s now willing to murder his friends and betray his country.
Despite the film’s reputation as an action blockbuster, it’s more of a chilly spy thriller with a few intricate heist sequences in the tradition of the original series (the break-in to the CIA headquarters in Langley, in which De Palma exhibits his gift for sustained suspense, is, by far, the best of them). Its only true action setpiece, the memorable train sequence, occurs as a kind of outrageous victory lap after the film has dramatically and thematically resolved. The film’s true climax occurs moments prior. Hunt exposes Phelps’ scheme using the same tools of surveillance Phelps manipulated earlier in the film, rewriting Phelps’ false narrative (De Palma’s follow-up feature, Snake Eyes rephrases many of the same ideas explored in Mission: Impossible, including the basic structures of this resolution, but with more conviction and depth).
Cruise’s boyish charm and intense focus had not yet begun to mature into the gravitas he now brings with him to his performances, and the film’s Ethan Hunt, a thinly drawn member of the IMF team who has to rise from the middle of the ranks to the position of leader, remains a weak focal point for the film’s drama. Accordingly, the character’s personality changes significantly in the next few films. In Mission: Impossible II, Ethan Hunt would transition into a confident daredevil and ladies’ man, a kind of American James Bond with luxuriously flowing hair.
Mission: Impossible II marked Cruise’s apex as a marquee star and solidified Cruise’s reputation as an adrenaline junkie, eager to push himself beyond his physical limits.The film introduces us to Cruise’s Hunt while he’s engaged in a precarious rock climb, complete with a harrowing jump-stunt that Cruise proudly performed himself. The sequence, and the remainder of the film, is infatuated with Cruise, with his straining musculature, with his piercing eyes, with his clenched jaw, treating Cruise’s Hunt less as a character than a demigod, an exemplar of human physique.
Mission: Impossible II departs dramatically from the template of the original television series, making only the faintest gesture toward the Impossible Missions Force being a team-based operation (Ving Rhames comes over from the original film, though he has little to do, and he’s paired with a new supporting character, John Poulson, who has even less to do). The heist sequences give way to gun ballet and motorcycle acrobatics. If this resembles Hong Kong action cinema, it’s something a bit stranger; there’s a Limp Bizkit song on the soundtrack and Hans Zimmer’s score plays the Lalo Schifrin title theme on wailing rock guitar.
Cruise’s original conception for the Mission: Impossible franchise was that it would function as a big-budget version of The Hire, with auteurs reinventing the stylistic landscape of the series with each installment. So the franchise shifted from Brian De Palma to Hong Kong action film maestro John Woo, who had, at that point, been working in Hollywood for the better part of a decade. Woo conceived of the film’s major action setpieces before the film had a story, and Cruise brought screenwriter Robert Towne, who’d helped bring Mission: Impossible together, to give the sequel a story.
Mission: Impossible II borrows the narrative framework of Hitchcock’s Notorious, weaving it into a thriller about corporate malfeasance and the development of a bioweapon, the Chimera virus. The storytelling approaches of Towne and Woo do not have much overlap, and Mission: Impossible II feels oddly stranded between them, playing to the strengths of neither. The sequences where Woo feels like he gets to cut loose feel less integrated into the film than they feel like digressions from it, injecting operatic melodrama and gun ballet into the cracks of script written as a more conventional Hollywood action thriller. The cast, Cruise included, struggle when tasked with going to the extremes of theatricality that Woo requires of them. Still, while Mission: Impossible II is considerably weaker than the preceding Hollywood pictures helmed by Woo (Hard Target, Broken Arrow, and Face/Off), when Woo still delivers sequences of pure, passionate cinema in which image and physics yield to the impulses of emotion. Mission: Impossible II‘s climactic beach fight ranks among the best sequences in Woo’s body of work.
J.J. Abrams’ Mission: Impossible III backpedaled away from the Ethan Hunt, Action Hero posturing of the second film. III paints Ethan Hunt as a veteran agent looking to get married and settle down (a moment that famously coincided with his highly publicized relationship with Katie Holmes). Here, Hunt has spent so long in the world of espionage that he has difficulty letting it go, and, by the end, his personal life and his professional life become hopelessly enmeshed.
This was the first Mission: Impossible film to use Cruise as a human ragdoll, deriving action thrills from the spectacle of the human body surviving punishment (as it did during its much-publicized stunt where Cruise is flung into the side of a car by the force an explosion). Still, this third entry lacks the showmanship of its predecessors. Abrams’ direction is undistinguished and frequently clumsy, particularly when tasked with the construction of intricate action sequences (III‘s helicopter chase is the most awkwardly assembled action setpiece in any of the Mission: Impossible films).
The script, written by Abrams with frequent collaborators Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman, also lacks refinement and structural clarity, unable to build any momentum from its best ideas. What little momentum the film has largely stems from Philip Seymour Hoffman’s turn as Owen Davian, a flimsy role that Hoffman manages to turn into something forceful through the application of intensity. The film’s opening, its most memorable scene, comprises of a flash-forward that finds Ethan and his new wife, Julia (Michelle Monaghan), at Davian’s mercy. Davian interrogates Ethan under the threat of killing Julia. It unfolds as a series of close-ups of a desperate, powerless Cruise and an unyielding, ferocious Hoffman. Alas, when the film returns to the scene later, it is none the richer for the addition of context.
Despite its considerable weaknesses, III established a new template for the franchise, which would increasingly become more mindful of continuity and more unified in its embrace of III‘s tone. The team dynamic would be given slightly more weight, and a cast of regulars would start to coalesce. The fourth film, subtitled Ghost Protocol, was the one to cement this template, finding an comfortable balance between Hunt and his teammates. Director Brad Bird came on board to direct his first live-action feature, and he restores the series’ showmanship even if he doesn’t restore its pronounced auteurist signature. Bird constructs the film with the understanding that the property’s real villain is the “impossible,” and so the plot itself exists merely to serve as a skeleton on which he can hang sequences with clearly-defined, ever-mounting obstacles for Hunt and his team to overcome.
Bird brings the dynamism of an animator to the film’s setpieces, the most impressive of which tasks Ethan Hunt with scaling the heights of the Burj Khalifa. Hunt (and by extension, Cruise) seems to push himself further and harder here than he has in any preceding film, taking hits and damage, fighting his way to the finished line in just the nick of time. There’s a resignation that accompanies Hunt’s characterization here. He’s found that he can’t give up the spy game and, accordingly, all he can do now is throw himself back into it with near-suicidal abandon. The film’s climax progressively breaks down Hunt’s body until Hunt is left nearly immobile.
In its follow-up Rogue Nation, Hunt’s appetite for inflicting damage on himself becomes one of the film’s jokes, though hope looms on the horizon. Rogue Nation gives Hunt a new love interest in Ilsa Faust (Rebecca Ferguson), a double-agent enmeshed in the machinations of the mysterious Syndicate. Rogue Nation works very well when it focuses on the two of them. Faust and Hunt have a cool, appealing chemistry; they’ve both been in the game long enough to have acquired their share of scars. In the other, they see a kindred spirit and perhaps the glimmer of a less dangerous life.
Alas, Rogue Nation gradually falls apart the longer it goes on, struggling to balance its too-large ensemble (it carries over most of the Ghost Protocol gang) along with the demands of its story (its third act was dramatically reshaped over the course of production, transforming what was to be its climactic airplane stunt into a throwaway gag for the film’s opening). Writer and director Christopher McQuarrie may be a careful craftsman, but he lacks the panache to make a sequence more than the sum of its pieces. Still, when all of the pieces are in place, as they are during the film’s opera house setpiece (which is, by far, the best clockwork setpiece since the CIA break-in in the De Palma film), Rogue Nation offers plenty of amusement.
Cruise and McQuarrie re-teamed for its successor, Mission: Impossible — Fallout, which, going by the promotional materials, will hit a number of familiar beats while again pushing Cruise to the limit. Here, he’s doing dangerous helicopter stunts and a daring HALO jump. He even injured himself during a rooftop chase sequence (the footage of Cruise breaking his ankle has been utilized in the finished film). If the Mission: Impossible series has become increasingly overburdened by its own ever-increasing ensemble of regulars, this series, in which Cruise/Hunt always goes to extremes, is a welcome presence in a time when more and more stuntwork is generated in a computer. Here’s to watching Cruise do the impossible one more time.