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Complete with bandanna, he even looked the part, and, since his death, in 2008, the clamor has only swelled.Īnybody hoping that “The End of the Tour” would mirror the formal dazzle of Wallace’s fiction, doubling back on itself like the frantically probing encounters in his 1999 collection, “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men,” will be disappointed. Mind you, the novelist is David Foster Wallace (Jason Segel)-the creator of “Infinite Jest,” and the nearest thing to a rock legend that literature has tossed up in recent decades.
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It took courage, therefore, for James Ponsoldt to direct a movie called “The End of the Tour,” which hits a dramatic peak when a novelist declines to answer questions after his reading. Where bands face a baying throng in a cavernous stadium, writers drone through random chunks of their work at the rear of provincial bookstores, signing copies in the faint hope that the newly enhanced volumes will not appear on eBay before breakfast. He can’t even steal a kiss.Īuthor tours should not be confused with the rock-and-roll variety. Of the many heists and grabs that litter the movie, none is as blatant as the deft, irrepressible manner in which Ferguson, displaying a light smile and a brisk way with a knife, steals the show. And the moral is: when in distress, call a damsel.
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This particular Ilsa is forever switching from Lane to the good guys and back again, pausing only to save Ethan’s skin and to prove, in the process, that, murky though the film’s geopolitics may be, its gender politics are a blast. As fans of Ingrid Bergman can confirm, nobody should go there without meeting a beautiful woman named Ilsa, preferably one whose loyalty is so mutable that men can hardly keep up. The Puccini sequence comes perilously early in the tale, yet it’s a gorgeous highlight, teeming with trills of visual wit, and McQuarrie uses the occasion to bow, as he should, to Hitchcock’s “The Man Who Knew Too Much.” In a similar tribute, Ilsa Faust (Rebecca Ferguson), a British spy, is on hand to greet Ethan and Benji when they arrive in Casablanca. These arias of suspense are conducted in lavish style by McQuarrie, and it’s no surprise that they exhaust his powers of invention, leaving the climax of the story to limp home.
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What this means is that we dart from one improbable set piece to the next: a performance of “Turandot” attended by a surplus of assassins the cracking of an underwater security system, breachable only by a free diver with capacious lungs and a motorbike chase that gives Cruise, leaning sideways at speed, the chance to buff his kneecaps on the curving road. “Only Lane knows what’s going to happen,” we are told.
Its principal is Solomon Lane (Sean Harris), who has a soft rasp in his voice and a finger in every nasty pie. This is a shadowy outfit-again, the open or sunlit variety is unthinkable-that is busy destabilizing the world order. Pals like Luther (Ving Rhames), Benji (Simon Pegg), and Brandt (Jeremy Renner) are on hand to guide his search for the Syndicate.
However stateless and lawless Ethan may be, once he’s disavowed by the C.I.A., he is far from friendless. Conversely, you could wind up, like me, so suckered by the tentacles of the plot that its ethical implications pass you by. How often do you get to hear Alec Baldwin sound like Ayn Rand? You could read the whole film as a reactionary plea for less transparency-for agents toiling so far below the surface of civil society, on our behalf, that we should not insult them with petty requests that they remain accountable. Needless to say, circumstances lead Hunley not just to change his tune but to sing the praises of Ethan as “the living manifestation of destiny.” Around me, people howled at that line. It is accused, by a congressional committee, of “wanton brinkmanship”-a nice description of this genre of movie-and promptly shut down. The hitch, for Ethan, is that Hunley (Alec Baldwin), the director of the C.I.A., argues that the I.M.F. Kikuo JohnsonĮthan works, as ever, for the I.M.F.: the Impossible Mission Force, not the International Monetary Fund, though it’s easy to imagine Christine Lagarde as his controller, immaculate in pearls, calmly instructing him to break into Greece and steal back the German cash. Some things have held firm throughout the “Mission: Impossible” films, not least a resolute belief that the globe is made for trotting.
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