From the first still I saw of this movie, where Tom Cruise is shirtless, wearing pants that are faintly Godless, head turned over his shoulder, leaning backwards with one hand straining towards something, like the Creation of Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, I knew Mr Cruise had found his Moment.
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The difficulty is, of course, that it is such an uphill battle to take him seriously, and just when you manage it, he will divorce a wife getting over her miscarriage and acquire a newer model, leaving you feeling like Sisyphus. There are two reasons for your struggle. One, Cruise is just too good-looking in that distracting way Brad Pitt does not possess. You look at the latter admiringly but dispassionately, while there’s something about Cruise that engages you, for better or worse. It could be his almost palpable need to be liked, possibly loved, or his earnestness at interviews where you know he knows you know he’s sincere.
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The second reason is his well-documented madness. His Scientology belief (don’t take meds for mental problems, we are all descended from aliens) and his marriage to the extremely malleable and wholly unprepossessing Katie Holmes (via the infamous Oprah couch scene) are two instances that stand out, yet when some idiot flung water at him on the red carpet and he retorted with the low-voiced, extremely low-voiced, “Why would you do something like that?” well, I don’t know about you, but I got chills.
His performances in Top Gun, Rain Man, Mission Impossible, Cocktail, Jerry MaGuire and The Last Samurai are impeccable, but it was with Tropic Thunder that the surprising comic edge we saw in Risky Business surfaced with real heart. And his flipping us the bird through his unattractive physical appearance was duly noted.
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It is with Rock of Ages, however, that you understand the reason for his fame. The movie sucks. Could I be any plainer? It’s a reincarnation of everything from Burlesque to Cabaret to Step Up to, gawdhelpus, The Wizard of Oz. Small-town girl tries to make it in LA in the late 80s when pop rock was the thing. Does she sell her soul? Does she get the guy? Does she find fame? We don’t care. We only wait for Tom Cruise to re-enter the screen as Stacee Jaxx, Rock God.
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From the first moment he emerges from under a pile of stacked women, Jaxx commands the viewer like a conductor his orchestra. He is jaded, cold, and uses people as ninepins to his fame, thrusting his chest out and swaggering from chaos to chaos. He is sex incarnate, talent boiled almost till congealed but still bubbling, peering from under his hat at an audience that resembles monkeys baying for blood. Probably why his right-hand simian gets some of the laughs while Stacee ploughs through the world.
There are moments when his pain is all you see, the shimmer in his eyes and his slack mouth making you want to run to him and soothe his fevered brow. When he finds redemption, it’s hard to stay in your seat and not run screaming down the aisles yelling his name like any music groupie worth her salt.
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Finally, Cruise has got our attention in all the right ways; he can even sing. Now if only he can restrain himself from dumping Katie Holmes and marrying Emma Stone. Adam Shankman (from So You Think You Can Dance) has directed Rock of Ages and he needs to have roses flung in his path. He knows how to give us the perfect throwaway line, like a stage hand telling Jaxx’s agent that Jaxx wants the radio turned off. The agent says, so turn it off. The stage hand says, “The radio in his head.”
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The only weak link is Russell Brand. What is this man’s charm? He’s mightily articulate, cool and mostly funny but He Can’t Act. Get him away from the camera, for God’s sake, it doesn’t love him. And what’s with the Scottish accent he’s trying on for size in the movie? And his attempt to portray gay as camp? Hellsfire, it was more than flesh and blood could stand. Much as I adore Alec Bladwin, the role of aging hippie didn’t quite fit; you felt he was wondering when he could go home and get on the treadmill so that he could ask Hilaria Thomas out.
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Jennifer Hough and Diego Boneta are good, now they need to find the right scripts or go the way of John Travolta before Tarantino asked him over. Paul Giamatti and Cat Zeta-Jones are wonderful to watch, as always; him with his believable cattiness, her because she can be funny and moving within the space of 60 seconds. As for the music? I can visualize thousands of movie-goers downloading ‘Harden My Heart’ and ‘Pour Some Sugar On Me’ as we speak – although they won’t tell anyone about it.
But this is all gravy; the meat of the dish remains Mr Cruise.
Sheba Thayil is a journalist and writer. She was born in Bombay, brought up in Hong Kong, and exiled to Bangalore. While editing, writing and working in varied places like The Economic Times, Gulf Daily News, New Indian ExpressandCosmopolitan, it is the movies and books, she says, that have always sustained her. She blogs at http://shebathayil.blogspot.com/