Valkyrie doesn't open until the end of the week, but the movie has already been taking a pasting, much of it in the form of open mockery of its star, Tom Cruise, so scathing that the question of just what has gone wrong with the wonder boy's career, and how might it be righted, is likely to continue for quite some time. Some people may have problems remembering that, for a very long time--we're talking decades here--it was as hard to find someone in the mainstream entertainment press or the industry itself who was prepared to question Tom's magnificence as it's been, since around mid-2005, to find someone not eager to question both his appeal and his sanity. How did it come to this? Stephen Metcalf at Slate thinks he has it figured out. He has a theory that involves a close read of the movie that made Cruise a star, Risky Business (1983), and how it played its part in saddling the now 46-year-old Cruise with an image that leaves him no room to mature as an actor. Recognizing Cruise's movie-star image as "the '80s incarnate" (and accurately summing up his acting range in four words: "bark, glare, seethe, repeat"), Metcalf recalls how Risky Business's "distinctive pathos derives from its first half, from the nocturnal weirdscape emanating out of Joel's jumbled libido. As this Joel, Cruise allowed himself to be everything the publicity team has tried to convince us, for 25 years, he isn't: insecure, sexually confused, and as Brickman's camerawork takes no pains to hide, physically small. We are meant to dislike—or at least, feel queasy—in the presence of the strutting superabundant charmer of the second half of the film, as he bursts forth from, and destroys, the chrysalis of Joel Goodsen. When Joel's parents go on vacation, he teams up with Lana to bring his horny friends together with her scheming colleagues, and in Joel's transformation (into a pimp, but also into Tom Cruise), we see the emergence of the '80s as the '80s."

"The '80s," writes Metcalf, "did for money what the '60s did for sex. They told a miraculously tempting lie about the curative powers of disinhibition. It took AIDS, feminism, and sociobiology a while to catch up to our illusions about free love. It has taken cronyism, speculation, and manic overleveraging a while to catch up to our illusions about free money. Now that Ponzi capitalism is collapsing in on itself, the perverse disjunction, of saying 'what the fuck' and thereby securing your 'future,' is simply no longer tenable." What this has to do with the Tomcat and his present situation, is that "The Cruise persona, like a junk bond, was never meant to reach maturity." It is possible to agree with the broad outlines of this and still find a way to argue with many of the specifics. I think that Metcalf, perhaps infatuated with the notion that something "beautiful and authentic" was lost when Cruise found his path to public super-success, is way too inclined to give Risky Business credit for being what its writer-director, Paul Brickman, has always claimed he wanted it to be. Brickman, who at the time was best known as the writer of Jonathan Demme's Citizens Band (and who in the quarter-century since, has directed only one other movie, the 1990 dud Men Don't Leave), has made no secret of the fact that he thought he was making a movie about the power of corruption, and that the Geffen Company pressured him into changing his original, downbeat ending, in which Joel emerged less than triumphant. Working from a blueprint of one of Brickman's interviews, one can now make out what a dark, troubling piece of work it was supposed to be.

But the millions of people who loved it because they thought it was the kick-ass party movie of the '80s weren't missing anything; Brickman did agree to the changed ending, and from the evidence onscreen, whatever he felt before and after making the movie, during the all-important shooting schedule, he was less interested in realizing his cruel vision than in showing that he had the slickest, most hyped-up visual style this side of a month of MTV. No one in the summer of 1983 was wrong for thinking the movie was just what it looked and felt like: the Flashdance of suburban pimp movies. As for the sexually inexperienced, awkward, not-yet-cocky Cruise of the first half of the movie, it may be that this was not the "authentic" acting of a talented young actor playing a human being but rather the way that a cunning self-promoter knew he had to come on before he could win the audience over and make his transformation into a strutting cocksman asshole seem like a happy ending rather than a sad comment on all humanity. It's true that in every other performance Cruise would give in his golden age, he would pick up where he left off at the end of Risky Business, playing the asshole from frame one, and never looking back. It could be argued that, since the point of Top Gun and Cocktail and all the rest was to give Cruise a chance to play the asshole, it showed a kind of respect for the audience that, once he had "evolved" once and turned from sweet boy to asshole in one movie, he never really had to do it again, just as Clint Eastwood didn't pretend to be Destry and act as if his characters were reluctant to draw their guns. (For Cruise, a "prestige" acting job was something like Born on the Fourth of July, where he started out as a cocky, swaggering, pro-war asshole and then got to chance into a different kind of self-dramatizing, anti-war asshole.)

In the go-go '80s, movie heroes in Hollywood blockbusters were defined as winners. It's not just that they were different from heroes of other movie eras, who were defined by their rebelliousness or their romantic charm or their inclination to question society or whatever, but that, at their purest, they had no characteristics besides their winningness. The Reagan years at their ripest were defined by a shiny, Crest toothpaste grin that seemed to be doing its best to hold up under tremendous, unacknowledged stress, and the biggest movie stars in those years were those who seemed dumb enough or sufficiently full of themselves to sell this. Cruise was the biggest movie star of the '80s because he was the one who best typefied the image of the Winner. He wasn't alone: Stallone was the winner with the big muscles, and Eddie Murphy, the big "comedy" star of the time, had his biggest successes in what were essentially action movies in which Murphy, when he wasn't winning by shooting people, killed time by insulting and otherwise lording it over bit players who hadn't been provided by the writers with any comebacks. (To remind you that you were watching a comedy, Murphy would frequently double over with hysterical laughter at how hilarious the movie was, meeting the audience halfway by serving as his own laugh track.)

If Cruise was bigger than his competition, it was partly because he seemed to embody these pictures more than his white-bread competition, maybe because he needed his success more than any man alive, and partly because he had no special talents or peculiarities like Murphy or the steroid freaks Stallone and his usurper Schwarzenegger. For the young dudes who bought movie tickets for themselves and their dates, he was as easy to project onto as Sarah Palin was for some trailer park mom with her hair in curlers and with two kids in her arms and one in the sink. He had no special qualities to distract the half-buzzed frat rat looking to pretend that was him up there on that screen drivin' that plane. There was a memorable moment in The Color of Money where Paul Newman tells him that he's "a natural character" and then has a good chuckle at the expense of his ignorant young sensei, who, misunderstanding, thinks that he's being paid the compliment of being told that he has character. The double-edged joke of this exchange is that Cruise wasn't even an unusual enough actor to successfully play a "character." But by then, the audience, knowing what to expect from him and what not to bother hoping for, understood that he was meant to seem like more of a live wire than usual because his hair looked weirder.



The real question is how Cruise managed to stick around so long, maintaining a pretty steady top-of-the-line career for so long that both Murphy and Stallone and flamed out and had comebacks, and Schwarzenegger went into politics, in the time it took him to experience his first real signs of career turbulence. Let alone how he earned all those good reviews--at least one critic, Georgia Brown of the Village Voice, actually got indignant back in 1990 when Daniel Day-Lewis won a critics' award instead of Cruise for having sat in that wheelchair in Born on the Fourth of July. The widespread incredulity in the face of his even having taken the role in Valkyrie is probably must greater than it would have been if Cruise's pretensions to being seen as a real actor hadn't been tolerated for so long. It's as if the world had just woken up from a collective fever, one made all the more confounding for just what they found themselves in bed with when sanity returned and the beer goggles came off. On a personal note, it kind of puts me in a funny place, because I could never stand Cruise when I was one of those college guys buying the tickets but have sort of warmed up to him since he went publicly batshit. (The movie in theaters when people started jumping off Cruise's bullet train was The War of the Worlds, and his performance in that was a lot better than some of the roles he's racked up raves and award nominations for. It was perfectly in his best range: he had to express resentment, run like hell, and convince you that he'd prefer not to be incinerated by alien death rays. And he got to share the screen with Tim Robbins, always a good choice if you want to remind people that sometimes, a "real" actor can be a hundred times more annoying than a movie star.) What next for Cruise? It may be a learning game, finding out what he can and cannot get away with now. As of 2008, the stats seem to be: Fat suit and bald wig yes, Nazi uniform and eyepatch, check please!