Running out of runway with Tom Cruise
Christchurch-based freelance writer
It was a cold and sunless day and I was fed up with interiors, as in the apartment I dwell in and the inside of my tiny mind. I hadn’t been to the flicks for ages, so I took the half-price bus into town, got off at the depot and tried to penetrate a movie complex undergoing major reconstruction.
I found a side door, navigating my way through dark corridors and up a lift before buying a ticket to Top Gun: Maverick, which didn’t start till 11am, and I was early.
The outing being impulsive, I’d failed to pack a water bottle, so I went to the clinical cabinets bathed in blue white light and, selecting the smallest bottle, took it to the counter where the youth said: ‘‘That’ll be $6.60, thanks.’’
‘‘Sheesh’’ I said through my mask, ‘‘Ned Kelly wore a mask.’’
But it was lost on the lad, who didn’t need to cop my gripe at the price. Normally I would take the bottle right back from whence it came but I was thirsty and the film was more than two hours long. I asked Counter Guy if he could seat me as far away from people as possible because, apart from Covid, I didn’t want to lend my ears to the mumbles and mastications of my fellow countrymen.
When I found my seat, I was overwhelmed by its vast size and intrigued to find buttons on the side which shot my legs out and rocked me back, making me feel as if I was ready for a gynaecological examination.
The theatre was sparsely populated but of course I had been placed only two seats down from a couple who were noisily eating popcorn out of boxes so huge they looked like the ones I’d moved house in.
Bang on 11am the punters were treated to an extensive medley of harrowingly loud ads for low-rent films of the superhero genre. I thought longingly of my earplugs at home and every instinct was to flee, but I was determined to see the state of Tom Cruise up close and personal on the megascreen and was looking forward to the plane fights.
In the last job I applied for they asked me what my greatest attribute was, to which I replied, ‘‘I do all my own stunts’’, so I feel an affinity with Tom, who is about my age and should be a role model.
When our elderly hero hoved into view I didn’t hear a word he said, so distracted was I by his dyed brown hair, which at his age must require hourly touch-ups because there wasn’t a grey follicle in evidence, and the deep cleansed pores of his skin made him look younger than he did in the original Top Gun.
What was most disappointing was his love interest with Jennifer Connelly, a fine actress who really should know better, and a scene of frolicking football team-building with young ace pilot dudes where Tom removed his top. I was thrilled to note that, despite a lifetime of exercise and strict dieting, Tom’s torso looked creepily twisted, like tortured wood.
The Super Hornet ‘‘Rhino’’ fighter plane action was enthralling but apparently in real life Tom wasn’t allowed to touch the controls, and when his character finally brought the plane home to land, I’d run out of runway with him.
Maybe I was in the wrong movie theatre and should never have strayed from my art-house comfort zone. Yes, I do sound middle class. Don’t worry, there’s a pill you can take for it.