By Kat Trout-Baron

    I told myself it wouldn’t become a thing– I have had many different interests throughout my life, ranging from Danish ballet to Midwestern drag queens, and each time it has risen and crashed in a similar fashion. I wouldn’t let it become a thing– there was no way I could be a fan of Tom Cruise, a public figure weighed down by scandal and scorn. At the time, my idea of Tom Cruise was molded by the hand-me-down myths from others, the fables that become fact without any second thought. Without ever watching or listening to him, I had decided that he was a plastic star, one that seems to glow stuck to your ceiling but dims once the paint wears off. However, as I delved into his filmography, I became more and more resistant to the idea that liking Tom Cruise had to be some type of gag or hot take. I am not interested in his personal life– I do not claim that he is a perfect man, and I find it frivolous to depend on tabloids or Instagram posts for the truth. I am fascinated by his onscreen presence, the most direct connection we have to his true-self. As I watched all forty-four of his films, it became clear to me that this was an actor whose first and foremost love was cinema– since the day he strutted into Endless Love as an extra, he has been salacious to appear on the silver screen. He is enraptured with all aspects of film, from the camera whipping past his body as he cascades down a mountain to the sticky gum-covered seats in a New York auditorium. When breaking down his work from 1981 to 2023, his mastery reveals itself– he has consistently delivered non-stop dramatic, comedic, and physical acting that demands your attention. He is not only a real, tangible star, but the brightest of them all. As other stars teeter out, dipping to the power of streaming or IP that swallows its artists, he remains luminous in the sky. When the last of his light puckers out, the world will realize how grateful it should have been for that intense blaze. 

    Tom Cruise’s early work in the 1980s is like watching someone ice skate for the first time– they stumble on the initial steps, unsure of how to navigate a brand new sensation. As they bend around the curves and fall a few times, they begin to move a little smoother and faster. Tom Cruise’s first onscreen appearance was in Harold Becker’s Taps, a 1981 drama about a military academy seized by students. He appears as a bulky, violent, and foolish agent of chaos– it is shocking to think of the dazzling lights in the distance for Cruise when he glares at you with a sneer. Taps is key to understanding the commitment Tom Cruise has to cinema– it gave him a taste of the life he wanted, providing him with access to screenwriters, rushes, and Academy actors. He indulged in their tales, earned himself a supporting-role due to his curiosity, and pushed along. His next few features provided him with lessons of what not to do– Losin’ It made him recognize that he’d rather wait for work than chase it, unwilling to attach his name to a project he didn’t feel passion for. Legend, Ridley Scott’s fantasy epic (which I personally love), allowed him to test different genres and learn that some did not work for him. Other films made him confident in the heights he could reach– his improvised slide across the floor in Risky Business caused people to turn their heads, and his glide into the skies in Top Gun made sure his name stuck. By 1990, he had worked with Martin Scorsese, Francis Ford Coppola, Dustin Hoffman, Barry Levinson, Paul Newman, and Oliver Stone amongst others. In every movie, he pushed himself a little harder, demanding an intense vulnerability from himself. Rain Man saw him opening the wounds of his childhood for the audience, a frustrated boy jilted by his dead father. Born on the Fourth of July required that he become another person, a biting and grueling film that stripped him of his usual charm. The Color of Money, which he starred in with Paul Newman, required him to work alongside his idol and prove himself a worthy successor. This was only the beginning– the nineties saw him spin across the ice masterfully, well-aware of what tricks he could do and which ones he could strive for. He no longer needed to hold onto the wall– he was amongst the professionals now. 

    Tom Cruise’s nineties run, in my opinion, is the greatest of any actor. I would like to focus on three distinct years– 1992, 1996, and 1999. All three years have one trait in common– they featured a Cruise double-feature. In 1992, Far and Away and A Few Good Men were released. While Far and Away had middling reviews, it was the first film made with 65-mm cameras, equipment which Tom helped develop. A Few Good Men was the first screenplay written by Aaron Sorkin– Tom was his first leading man, and one of the few able to make his domineering lines smooth. In 1996, Jerry Maguire and Mission: Impossible were in the top five highest grossing films of the year. This year can summarize who Tom Cruise is– someone who can go beyond the written word and tell a story with his soul. He is riveting to watch from start to finish, whether that be in his action work or his dramatic work. He transforms on screen, breaking apart before our very eyes and building back up again. In Jerry Maguire, he commands scenes with just his eyes, every moment of defeat and devotion too grand to be spoken prominent in his gaze. He bumbles as Jerry, falling on his face and cracking his voice in a room of his peers (his presence in this film was hailed by Billy Wilder, who named him a master of physical comedy). He is pathetic and hurt– a far-cry from the cocky, suave man expected. Mission: Impossible is similar– in the first twenty minutes, Ethan Hunt’s entire team is killed before our eyes. His life changes in a moment, and Tom presents this to us by becoming frantic, tripping over his words and breath. When the first kill happens, he leaps forward for a second, stunned. It is a small movement, but it says everything– this is an ambush, and he is no longer in control. Finally, 1999– Tom Cruise’s best year, and arguably the most profound year for any actor currently alive. Eyes Wide Shut and Magnolia, two striking features from notable auteurs Stanley Kubrick and Paul Thomas Anderson, featured vastly different work from Tom Cruise. Eyes Wide Shut took a piece of Tom’s soul with it– he labored on the film for several years, shutting himself off in a secluded corner of England. He followed every whim of Kubrick’s, whether that was to walk through a door-frame ninety-five times or to disclose his most personal secrets. Kubrick was his dream director– he was eager for a chance to be part of his world. Immediately after filming ended, he went and shot Magnolia in three weeks– unlike Kubrick, Paul Thomas Anderson was not tenured. He was a budding filmmaker on a high from his successful sophomoric feature, and he was determined to impress Tom Cruise. Eyes Wide Shut features Bill Harford, a New York socialite who keeps his audience at a distance. He is a man defined by his success, another elite who blends into the crowd. We ruminate with him for three hours as he contemplates his wifes pleasures with another man, seeing his discomfort but never fully pulling off his mask. In Magnolia, Frank TJ Mackey too tries to remain masked from the public eye. When the audience first meets him, he is a motivational speaker, strutting around with his chest puffed out and his hands cupped around his breast. As personal parts of his life are revealed, his image shatters, and the cover is ripped from him. This role is Tom Cruise’s most personal– Frank’s story mirrors his own, with a father that abandoned him at a young age. When Frank kneels at his father’s death bed and beseeches him, it is improvised by Tom. It is compelling to see the process of working with Anderson and Kubrick– a director on the rise and a director who has mastered his craft. One did not allow him to see rushes, removing any ability to correct his performance– Tom had to give himself entirely to Kubrick. The other offered him creative control, allowing him to blend the lines between character and actor. Eyes Wide Shut and Magnolia counter any claims that Tom Cruise is not a dynamic presence onscreen– in one year, he was able to give two emotionally taxing performances, one restrained and one unguarded. 

   Those are only the years in which two features were released– I wasn’t counting the one-off years like 1994, where he released Interview with a Vampire and stunned audiences with his dangerous sensitivity. Critics, fans, and the author of Interview with a Vampire said what audiences say now– he did not have the range to be Lestat De Lioncourt. He deflected their comments, allowing his performance to prove his worth. When watching Interview with a Vampire, you are transfixed on his sauntering movements, watching as he brushes nimble fingers across keys or waves them in the air flamboyantly. He is meant to be the villain, but in quaint moments like when he clutches Claudia’s hands upon his chest after insulting her, you understand his pain. Tom refused to let Lestat be a villain with no substance on screen– he gave him reason for his evil, a belief system that we were not fully privy too. He made him magnetic– when Lestat dies, the film teeters out. You no longer are seduced, eager to have the kiss of death upon your skin. 

   The 2000s are the years most overlooked– he began to primarily do action-based films, and people turned their noses up at him. Action has long suffered under the gaze of the public, being decreed as lesser than drama. It reminds me of early conversations where writers such as Virginia Woolf vehemently denied the artistic merit of film– when a genre or type of art does not fit into the erudite mold, it is mocked. Tom Cruise’s work in the 2000s fuses his desire for high-speed chases and his emotional prowess– when you encounter these films, you begin to question why people exaggerate the divide between the two types. War of the Worlds, his second collaboration with Steven Spielberg, features set-pieces that leave your heart pattering even after they cease. There are moments of intense movement, where he’s racing through traffic as an alien beam pierces the cracked concrete next to him, but there are also moments of soft, heartbreaking agony as he tearfully admits to his daughter he knows no lullabies to soothe her. Other films such as The Last Samurai and Collateral are the same– exhilarating adventures that seamlessly combine his athletic and emotional ability. Collateral stands out to me– it is one of my favorite Tom Cruise movies, and one of the first features I saw that made me realize I was wrong about him. He plays Vincent, a menacing, impartial killer– he does not have the same fierce desperation as Lestat that makes him a passionate killer– he does not feel attachment to life. As Vincent, Tom remains composed throughout the entire film, shutting us off from himself entirely– in his other films, we peer into his shimmering eyes and watch as his mouth quivers. Here, he remains stone-cold, not interested in sharing himself with us– Vincent has a job to do. That’s all he’s here for. 

   The 2010s were unprecedented times– CGI, streaming, and a pandemic broke down the filmmaking model that we knew. Like locusts in a field, executives have chewed away the beauty of the industry, greedy for pocket change. All that will be left from them is ruin– Tom has made it his prerogative to stop that. Every film from this era features a performance from Tom that positions him against the encroaching changes in the industry– when filming Ghost Protocol, there are reports that people on-set told him he did not have to do the Burj Khalifa stunt. Nobody would know if it was fake– to that, he declared there would never be a digital Tom. His insistence pays off– the minute he steps onto the ledge of the Burj Khalifa, only a wire attaching him to the glass frame, your breath catches in your throat. He moves through the air like he’s performing ballet, bending with the wind and steel. While scaling the tallest building in the world, he is also still delivering plot– he grits out dry, snappy lines that remind the audience the weariness of Ethan Hunt. At this point, he has been tethered to the IMF despite attempts to leave– he will be an agent until his eventual demise. This combination of impeccable stunt work and character transformation continues into the next two installments, Rogue Nation and Fallout. In Rogue Nation, Cruise’s Hunt meets his equal in Ilsa Faust, a rival spy. In the Vienna Opera house, crawling through the catwalks, he catches a glimpse of her across the stage. He freezes– a look of shock and exasperation flickers across his eyes, drawn to her presence but annoyed by its damage. He has no time to dawdle– he has another opponent high above the stage. As the actors within the film deliver an invigorating performance for their operatic audience, so does Cruise for his cinematic one. In a silent, intimate fight, he moves around multiple rickety bridges, dropping from heights and dodging around rusty bars. He does not show himself as an undefeated, untouchable God– he holds in a whimper as his ribs are smashed in with a steel boot, afraid to interrupt the show below. Ethan’s intense, excruciating work happens behind the scenes, unnoticed by onlookers– the same can be said for Cruise. In Fallout, he brings Ethan Hunt’s emotional conflict to the forefront. In the midst of many gorgeous set-pieces, including a halo-jump over Paris and a helicopter chase through the mountains, there are poignant moments of story that somehow leave you more winded than the action. Near the end of the film, as he races against the clock, he comes to a grinding halt in the presence of his ex-wife, Julia. She appears with her new partner, lost in mundane conversation. When their eyes lock for the first time, the tragedy of their lives is laid before us. They look at each other with heartbreak for what was and fear for what the future holds, as their physical reconnection was meant to be prevented. Ethan’s gaze flickers to her partner, his eyes watering. He doesn’t let his tears fall– he may love her, but he can never have her. He must move on from their reunion to save the world– in a brief moment, he is reminded that he can never have the normal, peaceful life he desires– he tried and failed. 

    Placed between each Mission: Impossible installment were several films that played to varying levels of success. Films such as Edge of Tomorrow reworked his image– as Bill Cage, Tom Cruise was a sniveling coward eager to remove himself from battle. He had the same charm, but none of the commitment– he wasn’t built to be a hero. American Made made him a conniving drug-smuggler– his grin is less inviting and more shark-like. His usual boyish flattery changes entirely– you recognize how thin the line is between genuine and constructed charisma. However, most of his solo-work in this period was overshadowed by his greatest critical failure– The Mummy. A film that falls apart around him, people took its panning as a sign that Tom Cruise was over. They ignored the continuous success of Mission and side-stepped his other work, leaping to conclusions– he had petered out. 

   Finally, we reach the 2020s– only one feature has been released so far in these years– Top Gun: Maverick. I cannot begin to articulate the impact Top Gun: Maverick has had on me and the industry as a whole. Tom Cruise’s efforts to reject the bleakness of modern cinema were successful– for a summer, people returned to the cinemas and felt a rush they didn’t know existed. Top Gun: Maverick reminded audiences what a movie could and should be– a well-crafted, earnest experience that lodged itself in their hearts and made them forget about the world. Top Gun: Maverick also did something else– it gave audiences a taste of the Tom Cruise allure that they’d been refusing for years. People who bemoaned his work, who refused to see his features, and who insisted that he was a fluke were shocked to see that he still commanded the screen. When I saw Top Gun: Maverick, I was no Tom Cruise fan. By the time the credits rolled, I felt my cheeks aflame as I was swindled by his easygoing charm. Not only that, but I felt stunned by his quiet dismay– with a jaw flex and a downturned head, he’d tell you everything about Maverick’s unspeakable grief. Top Gun: Maverick planted the seeds for my eventual reconsideration of Tom Cruise– for months, I would spend quiet days questioning what his deal was. Returning to Maverick after thirty-six years was facing the image people had forever tied to him and deconstructing it. He showed that he had aged, that the world had chewed him up and spit him out, but that he didn’t want to give up on it– or the audience– yet. 

   For the past year, after seeing beyond the fiction I had taken as fact, I have been learning as much as possible about Tom Cruise. I have watched every single movie, read essays about his artistry, and engaged in interviews where he dissects his experience. I am grateful for the time I have had delving into his work– not only has it allowed me to see a person for myself, but it has given me a rich education in filmmaking. I am a film student eager to write screenplays and devote myself to cinema– the commitment Tom Cruise displays reminds me that in a changing world, I am not alone in my admiration for this art. He has revived my faith in the future of this industry– I have had a difficult year feeling moralized in film school. My peers denounce classic films, lamenting that black-and-white features are outdated or that showing heart is unnecessary. It hurts to see people actively dislike the history of this artform, and it is frustrating to be ridiculed when I express my enthusiasm. Watching Tom Cruise’s movies was a balm for these frustrations– in any era of his career, I could see someone with the same need as me. He makes me determined to launch into the stars and find my place within them– I want to be able to call myself his equal in the industry. I want to work with him like the many directors and writers before me, trying to make a story worthy of his stature. Others may overlook him, but I will not make that same mistake. He’s our last movie star, and I will cherish that for as long as he’s alive.