“Maverick” Maniacs United

Say it again: Top Gun: Maverick is a totally square, totally flash-bang, sirloin steak, right down the middle, Tom Cruise-worshipping, un-woke, stiff-saluting, high-velocity, bull’s-eye popcorn pleasure machine.

If you submit to it, that is. For this is a formula thing, this movie…one super-mechanized, high-style, bucks-up thrill ride with a few heart moments sprinkled in. Au Hasard Balthazar, it’s not, so if you see it with, say, a Mark Harris attitude (and he wasn’t wrong when he put down the original Top Gun nine years ago), you won’t have as good of a time.

If you can just park your quibbles and show obeisance before power…if you can surrender to this military glamour fantasy, this glossy Joseph Kosinski breath-taker, this thundering Cruise + Chris McQuarrie + Jerry Bruckheimer G-force engine, this audience-friendly, holy-shit delivery device…if you submit you’ll enjoy it and then some.

What else are you going to do? Fight it? Stage a protest with speeches and placards?

Everything in Top Gun: Maverick is hardcore, highly strategized, mechanized, high-octaned, and totally fucking shameless. It’s like a two-hour trailer for itself. High style, brash energy, fleet editing, classic rock (even the 65-year-old “Great Balls of Fire” is celebrated), movie-star smiles, Top Gun nostalgia and a totally driller-killer finale.

Pete “Maverick” Mitchell (Cruise) is a somewhat rakish, middle-aged loner who lives only to fly solo while pushing the limits. After losing his test pilot gig, Mav is assigned to be an instructor at the Top Gun Academy in San Diego. His students include Rooster (Miles Teller), the son of Anthony Edwards‘ “Goose” who despises Maverick for taking his name off the Naval Academy list. (There was a reason.) There’s also the brash Hangman (Glen Powell) and a cool woman pilot, Phoenix (Monica Barbaro).

Maverick’s former rival Iceman (Val Kilmer), a retired admiral, has convinced the commanders that Maverick is the best guy to prepare pilots for a top-secret mission — the destruction of a uranium enrichment plant in some snow-covered mountainous region. Fighter jocks need to swoop in, detonate and get the fuck out before enemy missiles and dogfights ensue. You know what’s around the corner.

Remember Luke Skywalker‘s big Death Star challenge at the climax of Star Wars: A New Hope? Portions of that classic action sequence are recalled here. Oh, and also like Star Wars, the enemy has no face, only a dark gray helmet…no nationality or ethnicity.

There’s a moment near the end of Top Gun: Maverick when it seems as if the finale of another film about fighter jocks — Mark Robson‘s The Bridges at Toko-Ri (’54) — is being replayed. You’ll recall that it ends with William Holden and Mickey Rooney huddling in a muddy ditch and being killed by North Korean troops. If only the Kosinski-Cruise-Bruckheimer film had gone the distance in this respect.

But the absence of even a shred of wokeness is wonderful. Remember that it’s locked into a mid ‘80s mindset to start with, and that it was written and filmed before the woke thing kicked in bigtime.

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If McGillis Hadn’t Said It, Journos Never Would’ve Mentioned It

Everyone in Top Gun: Maverick (even the afflicted Val Kilmer) is attractive — lean, perfectly cut hair, great teeth, fine complexions. Tom Cruise, currently nudging 60 but 56 and 57 during filming, looks like a 48 year old who works out, eats healthily and gets facials. Jennifer Connelly, playing his Maverick character’s 40something girlfriend, has never looked more radiant. Jon Hamm, Ed Harris…all the older dudes have flat abs.

There’s just no room in this well-tended realm for the graying, heavy-set, mid-60ish Kelly McGillis, who played Cruise’s lover, Charlie, in the 1986 original. And even if she’d kept herself in shape…let’s not go there. McGillis is fine, she never would’ve made the cut, the producers liked Connelly, let it go.

Cultural Divide

“There are basically two kinds of people,” critic Harlan Jacobson observed in the mid ‘80s. “Those who think of Bruce Willis and Cybill Shepherd when they hear Moonlighting, and those who think of Jeremy Irons and Jerzy Skolimowski.”

Last night a Wilton friendo said, “Oh, I saw that. The other one.”

HE: “The Jeremy Irons? It opened 40 years ago.”

Friendo: “The one I saw was five or six years ago. A black kid…”

HE: “That was Moonlight. (beat) Whadja think of that?”

Friendo: “Ehh. Didn’t like the ending.”

Hackman Pop-Through

Yesterday New York theatre guy Seth Rudetsky tweeted this photo of himself and 92-year-old Gene Hackman at some Santa Fe event.

Glad to see Hackman in good health (although my first reaction was that he looks like Gollum). but the first Hackman film that came into Rudetsky’s mind was The Poseidon Adventure? Seriously? Not Hoosiers, The French Connection, Crimson Tide, The Firm, The Conversation, Unforgiven, Get Shorty, Mississippi Burning, Lilith, French Connection 2, Under Fire, etc.?

Bad Chemistry

A new still from Jordan Peele’s Nope (Universal, 7.22), and particularly (l. to. r.) of Daniel Kaluuya, Keke Palmer and Brandon Perea.

Palmer, of course, has become world famous over the last three weeks (or since 4.20) as the woman whose adverse reaction to a physical prank by Being Mortal costar Bill Murray — i.e., his allegedly yanking her pigtail in a nyuk-nyuk, joking-around way — led to production on Aziz Ansari‘s film being suspended.

Nobody knows for a fact that Murray’s offense involved pigtail-pulling, but if it was about that (and I know nothing at all) there’s a whole thing about black girls being extremely sensitive about white people touching their hair.

Ishiguro’s Dreary Downer Rebooted

Earlier today The Ankler‘s Jeff Sneider announced that one of the gloomiest and dreariest flicks in the history of cinema — Mark Romanek, Alex Garland and Kazuo Ishiguro‘s Never Let Me Go (’10) — is being relaunched as an FX series under the guidance of DNA Films & TV”s Andrew Macdonald and Allon Reich. What a perfectly dreadful idea. I’m in instant mourning.

August 2010 HE commentary: It’s not a very well-kept secret that Never Let Me Go deals with a grim-fate dynamic — an oppressive, locked-down situation in which “a long and happy life” isn’t in the cards for the main characters, who have been raised to be organ donors for the rich.

There’s a famous saying about how “the clarity of mind that comes to a man standing on the gallows is wonderful.” As in face facts, sharpen your mind, prioritize.

I’ve always been one, however, to take it a step further and not just prioritize and all that, but to first and foremost revel and rejoice in the immediacy of the symphony of life.

Death is something to be accepted, okay, but primarily fought and strategized against, frequently laughed at, lampooned and pooh-poohed, acknowledged but simultaneously “ignored” (in a manner of speaking), dismissed, despised and raged against (in Dylan Thomas‘s words) right to the end.

There is only life, only the continuance, only the fuel and the fire…only the next step, the next breath, the next meal, the next sip of water, the next hill to climb, the next perfect pair of courdoruy pants, the next adventure, the next hypnotizing woman, the next splash of salt spray in your face, the next staircase to run down two or three steps at a time, the next rental car and the next winding road to concentrate on and carefully negotiate, etc.

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Why Exactly Was James Bond Killed?

A conversation about the Bond franchise…a franchise that will most likely continue but which technically no longer exists due to the fact that James Bond was killed at the end of No Time To Die. Here’s how I put it earlier today:

HE: “’They’ (franchise caretakers Barbara Broccoli and Michael G. Wilson) killed James Bond in order to placate the wokester tyrannicals. HE HAD TO DIE for his decades of prowling, women-devouring chauvinism (which peaked during the Sean Connery-George Lazenby period and had actually started to wane with Roger Moore, who was too courtly and light-hearted to be a GENUINELY CALLOUS CHAUVINIST) and especially to signify that that kind of iconic power and dominance (brawny, martini-sipping white guy with a special license to kill anyone) had come to an end. THE STATEMENT HAD TO BE MADE.

Friendo: “I actually predict that Broccoli & Co. are going to bring Bond back as a defiant white man who is more sexual than Craig’s Bond was in the end. The series needs that, and I think they know it.”

HE: “But they killed the character — a British secret service agent who came into being in the early ’50s in the early Ian Fleming books, and who ruled as a superstar movie character for six decades (Dr. No to No Time To Die). How can they bring him back except in a prequel world?”

Friendo: “They can start the series over — in either a prequel world or a contemporary world — with a snap of their fingers. They can do whatever they want. I mean, the last Spider-Man movie featured all three of the actors who had played Spider-Man — a complete shattering of any sort of logical, cohesive, spherical Spider-realm. Who says this stuff has to perfectly parse? The Craig series was self-contained — a kind of five-film mythology. Why not just launch another series like that? Having said all that, I would LOVE it if they went early-‘60s period with it. That could be amazing, and they could bring the sex back.”

HE: “Yes, they can ‘do what they want’, but if they can REALLY do whatever the fuck they want, why did they kill him in the first place? What for? THEY ENDED THE MAN’S LIFE, and they’re gonna come right back in a couple of years with a new James Bond film like nothing happened in No Time To Die? If they’re going to do that, why did they kill ‘James Bond’? It makes no practical sense. It makes no sense at all. It was crazy.

“Unless (and this is my central point) they killed him as a symbolic sacrificial offering to the Secret Order of Woke Tyrannicals. A symbolic acknowledgment that, in the words of Kaye Corleone in The Godfather Part II, “all of this must end.”

“Broccoli didn’t need a signed demand letter from Woke Central, hand-delivered by courier — she knew that the time had come in the culture to kill this symbol of male dominance and omnipotence…that this decades-old symbol of brawny, ruling-class, white-guy power and close-to-unstoppable potency had to be stilled and snuffed out to make room for the new ruling order of women, wokester absolutists, Pete Meisel-type guys, POCs, LGBTQs and David Chappelle-hating trans activists.

“It’s not just that white guys need to share and surrender power and give up the old brutish ways of doing things — it’s also that white guys, to acknowledge their malignancy and to make up for their centuries of sinful plundering, need to sit in the back of the bus or, better yet, slit their own throats. This, finally, is what the killing of James Bond signified.”