There’s a lot of things you can call Tom Cruise. Thespian, scientologist, an impish rogue, a maverick, a little man with a towering personality. Yet there’s one cap that just doesn’t fit the diminutive Hollywood heavyweight and that’s the one worn by cowardly yellow-belly actors who are too darn pampered and precious to get their hands dirty and do their own stunts.
Cruise has always made it a point of pride to preform almost all of his own stunts throughout his glittering career. He’s the action man’s action man.
In a world where health and safety regulations have become a religion and where going out on a limb is just as scary as breaking one, Cruise leads the charge when it comes to putting your body on the line for something which is as pure as the driven snow and gets your heart beating like a Keith Moon drum solo – a good old fashioned adrenaline rush.
It’s all too easy to forget in these end times of bovine vacuousness and vicarious existence that human-beings were designed to move around a lot. We were meant to skip, hop, dance, run, jump and in some cases throw ourselves out of planes and hurtle through the skies, not sit on a sofa and drown in a tsunami of saturated fat and artificial preservatives.
As The Doors’ legendary frontman Jim Morrison once said, “We are content with the ‘given’ in sensation’s quest. We have been metamorphised from a mad body dancing on hillsides to a pair of eyes staring in the dark.”
Not our Tom however. In a world increasingly withered, worn and tied up with the tyranny of the cautious, Mr Cruise is thundering down the highway to hell and going all out to keep it real.
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