Digger

Some would say that Tom Cruise can do comedy, which is true,
though it’s more often than not unintentional and usually occurs
when he takes off his movie-star costume and takes a shot at
acting. This time “grating” would be a more accurate adjective
than “funny.”
Both critics and viewers are divided on this one. But not widely,
and its dismal opening box office speaks volumes. This
sanctimonious dud is projected to lose $150 million. Couldn’t
happen to a nicer Scientology shill. (Now, now, Don.)
Still, it’s directed by Mexico’s Alajandro G. Iñárritu, who has given
us such spellbinding fare as The Revenant and Birdman. How bad
could it be? So I took one of my Cruise allergy pills, had a few
drinks, and went to see it with as open a mind as I could muster.
I admire moviemakers and actors who dare to take the big swing.
Thing about big swings, though, is that they have to connect with
something, otherwise they’re just annoying and usually expensive
embarrassments.
To be fair, Cruise delivers a fierce soliloquy about halfway
through, showing plenty of pizzazz, but there’s no emotional
depth. The film is also loaded with playfully subliminal
throwaway visuals, and the set design is fascinating. But then we
have the wildly miscalculated structural meta-twist in the third
act, which most viewers will see coming a kilometer away and is
ultimately just artsy-fartsy irritating.
Some will tell you that this is a great film, but I wager they have
never seen Dr. Strangelove, from which it borrows heavily.
Auteur though Iñárritu may be, he’s a far cry from Stanley
Kubrick. It also riffs on Don’t Look Up, in that it trivializes a real

problem by making fun of it. It reaches for profundity but has
nothing to say.
Cruise is clearly envisioning an Oscar but is heading closer to
Razzie territory, and Iñárritu may be reexamining his career
choices, or even his entire narcissistic approach to filmmaking.
Recommended? Not to my worst enemy. (129 min; seems way
longer.)