Tom Cruise and Me – The New York Times

Just conjuring Matthau sends me dizzily back to the Hieronymus Bosch tableau that was my childhood, when every evening around 6:45 a train would pull up, the doors would slide open and not one but hundreds of Walter Matthaus of varying shapes and sizes and identities would stream out into the darkened streets of a suburban night. This was the expectation of what growing up and growing older would be.
Not only does Tom Cruise defy the sort of wear-and-tear that most of us call “existing,” he does it without seeming ridiculous. The best example might be the most current: Mr. Cruise in “Top Gun: Maverick,” which is vying for an Academy Award for best picture on Sunday night.
For those who haven’t seen the “Top Gun” sequel, it’s about an old man (Tom Cruise), the sole member of a squadron of collagen-rich pilots at their Hollywood peak who has the skill to save America from — from whom? Your guess is as good as mine.
The enemy has no flag, no ethnicity, no religion or style of governance. It would be a classic jingoist film, but today — like school lunches and peanuts — it is jingo free. Which highlights the ability of Mr. Cruise, a producer of “Maverick,” to pivot with the times. And to me, that capacity to read the current moment and step confidently into a role is a far better and more appealing way to stay young than whatever is gained by passing on every slice of buttered toast or never stepping, brimless, into the bright light of day.
I think it’s more the internal youthfulness than the external that keeps me watching, that solid self-assurance — or at least the fantasy of it — that Mr. Cruise continues to deliver that delivers for me. I know we’re talking about a public persona more than a person, but the insane kind of certainty he radiates is reassuring and so different from the internalized terror and second-guessing that fiction writers like me feed on. And it doesn’t feel like he’s still making movies to cash a check, big as they are.
Maybe that’s the true joy of watching him. Because he’s forever geared up and ready to go. In charge of the situation. Always smooth. And not in a wrinkle-free way but in a way I equate with smooth writing. In that we only ever experience creative endeavors as deft and effortless when they cover up discipline and hard work.
As I age, I guess I really just like engaging with people who are aging along with me and still appear to love doing what they do — artists who look as hungry as they were on Day 1. When it comes to fiction, the only projects I want to commit to are the ones that, like a million-piece Lego model dumped out on the floor, seem dizzyingly impossible to put together. It’s only fun if it’s terrifying, if it’s going to take all you have to get it done — and knowing it, and you, still might fail. It’s never about the reception, it’s about the craft.