The Bliss of Watching 'Mission': Incomprehensible

Which leads to one of "M:i:III's" core achievements: its action sequences. Stupendous and stupendously stupid at once, they are industrial strength inanity splurged upon the screen at a mega-budget. 'Splosions, SUVs sailing through the air, drones firing rockets, magnetic grenades, little sprockets for quick descents, throat mikes, tailored black jumpsuits, helicopters that can fly through windmill blades -- it's a paradise of infantile wish fulfillment. It must have been thought up by babies!

The overarching conceit is that no matter the spontaneous technical challenge faced, the Impossible Mission Force member will have the perfect tool attached to his belt! Who wouldn't respond to the tidiness in that? The next stop is the fantastic machine. There are many in this edition, but the most fantastic is some kind of computer-driven plastic mask carver that, front-loaded with crucial digital data, can replicate a man's face, complete to coloring, in perfection in seconds while situated in the basement of that same Vatican. By this method, Cruise is able to instantly fashion a Philip Seymour Hoffman mask, though of course once he slips it on, the actual Philip Seymour Hoffman plays Tom Cruise playing Philip Seymour Hoffman. Brecht and Pirandello, working together with an endless supply of absinthe and Moroccan red kef, couldn't have thought that one up! Either that, or Tom Cruise really thought "Face/Off" was cool!

Then there's the men's room at the Vatican. Have you ever wondered? Me, too. Turns out it looks a lot like the men's room at the Olive Garden. And suppose you run into Il Papa at the next urinal. What do you say? "Buona sera, Your Holiness." And he replies, "The same to you, my son." Fabulous.

But all this leads to the final stroke of genius in the movie, the one that pulled me back each time and made the cold ocean, the crowded plane, the snoozing wife, the obnoxious kids, and Betty or Veronica's feet all go away: Philip Seymour Hoffman.

How great is this guy? He's like Orson Welles's Harry Lime in this movie, in it for about 10 minutes and yet he keeps the whole thing going; without him, it's a fire drill, a ringless circus, a fortune cookie without a fortune, a box of Cracker Jacks without a prize.

He plays the international arms dealer, which isn't a part, it's three words on a blank page. No back story, no motivation, no nationality, no context, probably the worst-written part in the history of movies. Yet he is fabulous. He gives this guy malevolence, will, shrewd intelligence, blind fury, physical grace, sheer undulating evil, all of it from nowhere. Talk about magic. He pulls something real out of nothingness. He just is, and he alone gives the movie something worth watching beyond its identity as one of the most expensive dog-and-pony shows in existence.

As I say, on each subsequent viewing I got deeper into it; I learned its pauses, its dull spots, its bathroom breaks. I could even abandon some sequences at the precise moments they went completely insane, leaving the memory of something pretty damn good. I could isolate single moments of such utter preposterousness and savor them like a fine wine sloshed gently on the tongue: Loved the Russian-speaking Special Forces guys who attack Cruise and team in the middle of the Chesapeake Bay; did someone in Norfolk dial 1-800-RENT-A-SPETNAZ? It became more than a movie, it became a comforting friend, a partner. Couldn't wait to see Maggie blow that Ferrari to bits again! I couldn't wait for the rubber Phil head to cover Cruise's handsome profile or for the British guy to take the Huey through the windmill!

At 4 a.m. Tokyo time at 40,000 feet over Nome, baby, that's movie-making!