Against all odds, I enjoyed Top Gun: Maverick. Not only is it an action movie that doubles as military propaganda, but it is a sequel to an action movie that doubles as military propaganda. And on top of that, the original is one I have not seen beyond its infamous volleyball scene (but plan on watching, in large part because of this Gawker piece by Nicolas Russell, in medium part because my brother keeps saying that he can’t believe I haven’t seen it).
As previously discussed, I am not typically charmed by things pew pewing and that much hasn’t changed.
A quick portrait to further illustrate this: a few years ago, my mother texts me to tell me she saw the Mister Rogers movie and says, “You will like it. It’s so boring!”
Despite my truth, I found Top Gun: The Rise of Gruverick watchable, entertaining, and something fun for the summertime. While watching, I barely wanted to be on my phone, playing the Sims (all the couples in my fake town are gay and interesting) or refreshing my email for no reason (to be annoyed by a GlassesUSA email every hour, but not annoyed enough to unsubscribe…) – fully submerged in the high tide of what Russell calls “popcorn jingoism.”
Now, to see Top Gun: Maverick on the eve of the 4th of July in the nation textbooks call the U.S.A. is bordering red white, and blue overkill, but I promise, it wasn’t intentional. What was even more unintentional was seeing the film (film lol) on Tom Cruise’s 60th birthday. What prompted me to discover this tidbit was the overwhelming sense that he was a Cancer and being proved right. In a short clip that plays ahead of the movie, Tom thanks the audience for coming — the delivery of which reeked of the crabbiest water sign in the zodiac. I belatedly raise my empty fountain cherry Coke to you, Mr. Cruise!
Tom does a great job playing Captain Pete “Maverick” Mitchell… a grizzled naval aviator refusing to rise above his station, so that he can instead fly planes really fast and disobey his superiors at every turn (Maverick is giving Aries, tbh). The film begins with him doing just that, pushing a plane past its limits and destroying it in the process. Boys are so annoying. I was confused, but in the way you are when talking to a drunk girl in a bar bathroom – underneath the surface, your clueless, polite nods are saying tell me more. As punishment and salvation, Maverick is assigned to teach some young bucks at his alma mater, Top Gun (which is the name of the school! News to me), in preparation for a very difficult mission involving a uranium refinery and [insert enemy here]. One of the bright, cocky pilots is of course Rooster, son of Goose from the original Top Gun, who dies while flying second to Maverick.
Rooster, played by Miles Teller, is compelling, not only for his grief and resentments, but also because he’s incredibly cautious in the cockpit. During training, he doesn’t maintain the speed required. He hesitates. I am used to a pompous Teller, one who delivers on his promised cocksureness. That more deliberately dick-swinging big man on campus is Hangman, played by Glen Powell. I, unfortunately, have a disease where I think Glen Powell is Scott Eastwood… the entire movie I thought to myself, Scott Eastwood is doing super well. I am so sorry, Glen. That said, I believe this guy is severely undercast. Moving forward, I promise to be better about not thinking he is Scott Eastwood. If this requires an iPhone note apology, let me know.
Anyway, Maverick… Rooster… Goose… Hangman… the call names make me laugh. There is actually a minor character in this one that goes by Fanboy. Adorable, considering they fly around in death machines that shoot missiles at uranium refineries built by [insert enemy here]. A few days before seeing the movie, we were on the beach (bragging!) and my aunt asked me and my brother what our call names would be. My gut reaction was “Psyduck” because when Aliyah and I watched Pokémon: Detective Pikachu, she pointed at the TV and said “that’s you” when the anxious creature tottered on screen.
When I felt we were nearing the end, melted M&Ms caked into my cuticles, my initial review was “not enough hugging,” but then there is a great, long hug that makes up for it. Final review: Top Gun: Maverick is a masterclass in hug edging.
Also, I personally feel that the film releasing a full version of Teller singing “Great Balls of Fire” is its way to sleight Baz Luhrmann and the Elvis producers for going with Austin Butler.
I think I’m ready for another Miles Teller renaissance. I know he is unliked by many for a handful of reasons, including the way he conducted himself in this infamous interview, but I don’t think we actually need to find all of our actors to be sweetie pie perfect angels who we’d like to befriend. (Perhaps this is a side effect of me consuming 2-4 Real Housewives franchises at the same time). There are so many people who are rude, crude, or tough to be around AND who are excellent at their jobs. Like my former primary care doctor. She was so mean, but she was right all of the time. She’d be like “leave your mother at the door” when I’d start self-diagnosing. She moved to Western Mass, but the next time I need a pap, I might hit her up.
I did not like the Elvis movie and I’m not sorry. It’s not even the overwhelming indulgence of all 159 minutes of it – excess is expected with Baz Luhrmann. It’s much more devastating than that: National Treasure Tom Hanks soured the entire experience for me. For two and a half hours, he waddled around, talking like Gollum (while not exactly talking like Gollum) speaking with the most inane accent that the man he is based on did not have, by the way.
If you haven’t seen the film yet, I dare you to take a shot every time Hanks utters the phrase “my boy” in that creepy voice. Even typing that sends shivers down my spine. You will be Erika Jayne level “lit” before the first hour passes.
Michael and I saw it in a Dolby theater and the audience clapped for the Nicole Kidman AMC ad, but not Elvis, which frankly says so much... Michael also saw Cody Rigsby in the bathroom, and I witnessed a toilet on the verge of explosion, the water swirling violently in perpetual flush. Then we both spotted one of the kids from Love, Victor, but not one that made us excited. He took the escalator down with us and all I could think was I wish you were a different kid from Love, Victor.
My addendum to this pseudo review is exactly what people who love the film are saying: Austin Butler is really good. (On the drive home from Top Gun, my aunt asked me what Austin Butler is famous for, and without taking a minute to think I said: “for dating Vanessa Hudgens.” Sorry, Austin.) I am sure he will be nominated for an Oscar. I think anyone who is given the opportunity to play that junk-shaking legend is set up for a kind of awards circuit success… but can I ask a serious question? When will the musical biopic industrial complex be stopped for good?
Unrelatedly, I make a tiny cameo in Carol Ades’ lyric video for her latest single, “26.” And I think you should watch it. (Academy… be brave and maybe nominate me for that? Shake things up!)
If you pay close attention, you’ll see me blow out candles on a birthday cake. I love the song, especially its outro, in which she sings: “Maybe if I stop needing/Every grocery cashier to fall deeply and madly in love with me/Something is probably, certainly wrong with me.” So real. For the last few months, Michael and I have been referring to Carol Ades as “mother” and/or “mutha.” Check out her music if your vibe is “crying inside your car in the supermarket parking lot” “crying while walking to the store to buy butter and pretzels and maybe a kombucha” or “crying and feeling the overwhelming impulse to take a selfie so you take a selfie.”
An Easter egg of the video is that it also includes a 0.1-second clip of my friends being silly in Manhattan, spinning the Alamo Cube in Astor Place. Apparently, it isn’t spinning anymore? And THAT makes this a historical text!
Though I’m sure it went unnoticed, I didn’t ‘stack last week. As illustrated by my shenanigans, (including the Jimmy Awards — I’m never shutting up about that, sorry!), I was “on vacation” - hanging out with my family, watching Jeopardy!, reading books, getting sunburnt, seeing The Chicks (I’ll say 3 things about this. 1) The Chicks are very important. 2) Michael said that Natalie Maines was “giving Che Diaz” and my heart broke into a million little pieces, and 3) Before the show, we saw someone tailgating who had an ombré beard. I couldn’t stop referring to them as “Queent.” My friend Mary was like, “What is queent? Do people say that?” and reader, no, they do not. But now? Everything is Queent), and ultimately trying to give my mind a restful reset.
If I was asked to describe my brain as of late, it’d be an endless loop of someone whisking a batter of some kind really aggressively. Probably a snippet from The Bear (which I unsurprisingly loved and think you should watch. It gave me chest pains, but what doesn’t?). I only bring up my absence because I’ve been so consistent with putting these scrawlings into the world, and I was afraid that skipping a week would make me more likely to stop altogether – but thanks to the dumbfounding power of Tom Cruise and the surprising cruelty of Tom Hanks, I’m back, baby.
Thanks, Toms.
Big love,
kaylasomething