American Made

Directed By: Doug LimanWritten By: Gary SpinelliStarring: Tom Cruise, Domhnall Gleeson, Sarah Wright, Jesse Plemons

Succinctly, American Made is a superficial yet serviceable entertainment. It tells us the true story (true in the Hollywood blockbuster sense of the word) of pilot, turned CIA reconnaissance man, turned drug smuggler Barry Seal, whose tale might have been a terrifying one if the man didn’t have such a whale of a time being a crook.

In terms of style the film is familiar, queuing in a long line of recent picaresque-biographies-come-cautionary-tales in which up-tempo rock standards drive a hustling energy, the protagonist gleefully justifies their misdemeanours via narration, freeze-frames aplenty, and many retro details are indulged. Gold, War Dogs and Wolf of Wall Street all share in part with this approach, offering a snapshot of the fleeting highs and inevitable lows of the dishonestly attained American dream, pointing to Scorsese’s Goodfellas before ultimately consigning to its shadow.

American Made is no exception, hitting many of Goodfellas’ stylistic cues without ever bracing the depth or evocativeness of that particular crime saga. The film bears pretensions of depth, gesturing toward some unrealised political statement. It attempts to parlay the highly profitable misadventures of Barry Seal (Tom Cruise) into an underlining of the U.S government’s delusions of morality and innocence, treading a familiar line in the process—those on top stay on top, shielded by their desks and never having to bear the costs of their own depravity, while those beneath are left to burn (a la The Big Short, Quiz Show). The film juxtaposes footage of Ronald and Nancy Regan waging war on drugs and various political threats to the American ideal, with the chief storyline, in which Regan’s administration enables those very threats by empowering someone like Barry Seal.

It wouldn’t be right to linger any longer on this aspect of the story however, for that would be to make the same mistake as the film itself, attributing greater heft to it than is earned. American Made is most effectively viewed through the lens of a high-energy underworld romp. Barry Seal liked to have fun, and the film is at its best when it follows his lead.

It was directed by Doug Liman and written by Gary Spinelli, but this is Tom Cruise’s movie, it hinges on his magnetism. Here, Cruise does his greatest hits, fusing that devil-may-care cockiness of his early features (The Colour of Money, Days of Thunder), with the more physical, high-octane edge of his latest work (the Jack Reachers and Mission Impossibles—Cruise of course performs his own stunts), all whilst calling to mind Tony Scott’s Top Gun as we see Cruise once again don a pair of aviators and slide in behind the controls of an aircraft. It’s enough to make one wonder if the whole exercise isn’t just a means of mocking Mr. Cruise, lovingly so.

He plays Seal, a prodigious TWA pilot (the youngest in airline history) who by the time we meet him in the late ‘70s has grown bored with his monotonous routine. To spice things up he starts using his international commutes to smuggle Cuban cigars into America, catching the eye of Domhnall Gleeson’s CIA agent Schafer along the way. When confronted by Schafer on his side project, Barry (as you or I might) doesn’t gulp and panic, but rather ignites at the prospect of excitement—“Holy shit! You’re CIA!” he exclaims in the tone of a child on Christmas.

Barry is right to be unalarmed. Schafer doesn’t reprimand Barry, but instead enlists him to fly over communist insurgents in South America and take reconnaissance photos. Barry’s good at it too, even if he is shaky on the legitimacy of it all; “all this legal?” he asks. “If you’re doing it for the good guys” Schafer shoots back, wry grin creeping across his face. By film’s end, “good guys” is just another way of saying “me”. Barry, though, is not the type to protest when there’s a thrill on the table and a buck to be made— “I do tend to leap before I look” he remarks in one of many VHS diary entries which form the film’s narration device.

During one such mission, Barry finds himself in the company of the Medellin cartel, and things explode from there. Soon he’s smuggling cocaine into Florida for Pablo Escobar, and running guns to alleged freedom fighters warring against the communists. He’s gifted his own private, CIA funded airline, he finds himself at the heart of the Iran-Contra Scandal, and along the way he accumulates literally too much money. It gets to the point where Barry can’t bury a duffle bag of cash in his backyard without unearthing another such bag, or open a closet door without drowning in bank notes. He even gets his own private vault at the bank which is twice the size of the vault reserved for the rest of the clientele.

Liman insists on demonstrating Barry’s routine to the point of superfluity (Barry journeys to South America, commits his deeds, counts his money, wash-rinse-repeat), but the director remains adept in burrowing into the frenzy of it all, scribbling expositional text onscreen as if the film itself is in a rush, conjuring a sweltering atmosphere (Cruise is glamorously haggard—perpetually dowsed in sweat, looking as though he’s been to hell and back fifteen times in the day and loving every bit of it), and maintaining a breathless pace. It adds up to an intoxicating portrait. What Liman accomplishes is a visceral tap into Seal’s spiral down the fiery rabbit hole of corruption, keeping the real-life narrative grounded even as its wheels threaten to leave the runway.

Cruise is the glue though. He is the auteur of the film, more so than Liman or Spinelli—at once repulsive and alluring, never skimming on the sleaziness of Seal but retaining that trademark Cruise charm. It’s the central performance that allows the actions of Seal to be in equal part appalling and exciting, that allows us to enjoy the company of Barry even as we snarl at him. There is still something boyish about Cruise, 55 going on 30, where with little more than an innocuous smile he can cut through all the grease and filth and pinpoint something irresistible. It’s his film, and so it should be.

To reitterate the point, it’s never enough to instil substance in this skin-deep biography— American Made as a piece won’t persist in the memory. But glibness be damned, the sight of Tom Cruise fleeing a plane crash slathered in cocaine on a kids bike with a duffle bag of cash over his shoulder is, much like Barry would say of his own life, fun while it lasts, and in the absence of any registering statements, that’s at least something.

Rating:

2.75/4