How Friday Ate My $53
Note: While there really aren’t any spoilers here, per se, the point might spoil more than a scene-by-scene deconstruction would.
Phillip Seymour Hoffman continues to amaze. I’ll admit that I haven’t seen Capote, but that won’t be the case for too much longer. And I haven’t precisely followed his career. But I’ve seen quite a few examples of the Hoff’s subtle style to confidently support his current acclaim.
Mission Impossible III finds P. Hoffman with some room to grow. J.J. Abrams, MI:III’s director, teased us with his villain’s calm, calculated, diabolical rage. As much as I’m a special-effects fanboy, and wholly accept that I went to the theater not to find enlightenment but rather to see some shit explode, this tease caught me off-guard. I imagined bits of scenes pitting the linear-if-dashing Ethan Hunt against Hoffman’s maniacal-yet-still-human-and-that’s-what-really-gets-you Owen Davian—maybe echoes of Pitt-v-Spacey from Seven (note, please, that I said “echoes”—I’m not actually brain-dead).
Unfortunately, while the special effects and action sequences delivered at or above par (I’m convinced that John Woo has no place in American movies), Hoffman’s character devolved into something less Spacey’s John Doe and more surly Bond villain. I can’t really recall where things started to fall apart, really. You’d think that 2-and-a-quarter hours would allow ample time to explore all the gadgets, weapons, and less-than-improbable (calling them “impossible” makes me feel a little like I’m chanting) covert ops; the requisite (and, in context, nuanced) love interest; and still develop Davian along the vectors indicated by all the dialog about him. But this was not to be.
In the end, Ethan Hunt runs a lot, drives fast, has some people blow shit up for him, kisses, laughs, and enjoys a party or two. Tom Cruise hit his stride so much more cleanly this time than in War of the Worlds, for which I had unrealistic expectations due almost solely to Spielberg’s collaboration with Cruise. Though the first in this series (I fully expect another) rules among the three on cloak and dagger, MI:III alights with smooth and daring stunts, and deftly walks the line between delivering a mere derivative of the first and resorting to the slow-mo-porn that was the second.
However much this works for Cruise, though, don’t expect to enjoy too much of Hoffman. Maybe Peter Jackson would’ve had the clout to push three hours (four on the DVD), and Davian would have made a stronger impression.
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