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Okay, this proves it, the rumors must be true: Tom Cruise is gay. How else to explain him with her (Nicole Kidman, his costar and wife) in their real life? Sure, I know what she gets out of it: the patina of association with one of Hollywood's biggest stars, and fodder for her goliath showbiz ambition. But what does he take to the bank, other than a pretty beard? These two have the onscreen chemistry of mud.
Nicole's role in this is as weighty as a potted plant, and her character's a total bitch. Other than a couple of scenes designed only to make her husband jealous, she's not in the movie. Which is good, since any scene without Cruise is fascinating as blank film stock.
And what's with the story? Or a better question, where's the story? Everybody wants to sleep with everybody, but usually doesn't. There's deep intrigue involving a secret society and illicit prostitution, perhaps even human sacrifice, but no resolution or answers. And at the end, Cruise and Kidman are back together, pretty much because they have no more attractive options immediately available to facilitate their escape from a sad and dysfunctional marriage.
The sets and cinematography are brilliant � all dressed up and nowhere to go. The omnipresent pleasantry of its Christmas setting presents a jarring, contrasting context for the surreal storyline.
The first hour is pure tedium. The movie finally gets rolling when Cruise sneaks into the wackos' lair, but just when we actually start to care about the story, the credits roll with no conclusions. We viewers are cheated of � well, everything.
I know why director Stanley Kubrick is dead � this film killed him.