For all the furor surrounding Tom and Scientology—a Gallup poll released in April 2008 revealed that Hubbard’s church was the most negatively viewed religion in America, behind the Mormons, Muslims, and atheists—his enthusiasm for his faith remained undimmed. It was revealed that he had donated $5 million to the cause, beaten only by Nancy Cartwright, the voice of Bart Simpson, who gave $10 million to spread the word of L. Ron Hubbard. Nor was his friendship with church leader David Miscavige impaired; the pals were spotted at a motorcycle race track in Monterey, California, in the summer of 2008. By then Scientology membership had become a toxic issue for other celebrities. Tom’s friend and sword-fighting partner Will Smith spent much of the year fencing with journalists about his possible involvement with the controversial church. In a confrontation with members of Anonymous in September, he denied that he was a member.
Tom’s unwavering support for his spiritual constituency came at a price. The electorate who really called the shots, the movers and shakers in Hollywood, began to voice their doubts about his future. Peter Bart, the editor-in-chief of Variety, the Bible of the entertainment industry, captured the hostile mood in January 2008. It did not make reassuring reading for the man who had recently been the biggest box-office draw in the world. Bart wrote, “Since the appearance of the Cruise salute [Tom’s Scientology video], I have been peppered with anecdotes from top players in the industry describing instances in which Cruise has used his bully pulpit to advance his cause. His fervor is tilting the entertainment community against him. He is a target of suspicion rather than respect.” Arguing that a film star’s brand should remain bland, Bart continued, “Cruise’s advocacy of Scientology and its satellite causes seems to have become even more strident and contentious. More than ever, his actions reflect the conviction that he, Tom Terrific, has sole and unique access to the ultimate truth about life, science and cinema.”
Whatever his views on life, Hollywood was beginning to doubt his cinematic choices. The financial and artistic failure of Lions for Lambs, his first movie as the head of United Artists, placed more pressure on his second big feature, Valkyrie, about the doomed attempt to assassinate Hitler. It was a troubled shoot, dogged by bad publicity and misadventures on the set, such as a studio fire and injuries sustained by a number of extras. The frequent change of the film’s release date merely added to the air of pessimism. Obituary writers were beginning to sharpen their pencils. “Is Tom Cruise’s career over?” asked a headline in The Week.
For once it seems that the actor was prepared to listen to the warning voices inside the industry. In March 2008 he swallowed his pride and invited Viacom head Sumner Redstone—the man who had publicly sacked him from Paramount—out for lunch. Their very public rapprochement at the Beverly Hills Hotel seemed to signify that Tom was once more back in the fold—and back with a chance of making Mission: Impossible 1V. “We agreed that past is the past and we would put it behind us and renew our relationship,” said Mr. Redstone afterwards. “It seems clear,” noted Hollywood insider Kim Masters, “that Cruise has begun to appreciate the magnitude of career damage that he has inflicted upon himself, though he may not completely grasp the cause.” Operation Career Recovery was now underway.
The rebranding—or as Peter Bart might say, the “reblanding”—of Tom Cruise began in earnest when he invited Oprah Winfrey to join him at his ranch in Telluride, Colorado. After giving Oprah a tour of the sprawling property—the highlight was a miniature “office” for baby Suri—he sat sedately on his overstuffed sofa and attempted to explain away the pitfalls and pratfalls of the recent past. Oprah obligingly helped out whenever he struggled for the right language; it was less of an interview than Hollywood royalty communing with itself.
In the hour-long chat, he regretted his attack on Brooke Shields but not the sofa- jumping incident. He denied that Nicole Kidman was prevented from seeing their two adopted children, Connor and Bella—the teenagers flew to Nashville to meet with Sunday Rose, Kidman’s baby daughter, a couple of weeks after her birth in July; suggested that his opposition to psychiatry was focused on drugs for children; and argued that his now-infamous video was taken out of context. (On this issue he was correct; if the public had been allowed to see the three-hour Scientology extravaganza where David Miscavige talked of using “smart bombs” and “booby traps” to “globally obliterate” psychiatry, they might have been even more alarmed.)
“Listen, I feel like definitely things have been misunderstood and there are things I could have done better,” he explained in a performance that was uncharacteristically sober and low-key. “From now on when I’m dealing with my humanitarian issues, I’ll talk about my humanitarian issues and when I’m promoting a film I’m just going to promote the film. And that’s just the way it’s going to be.” His announcement may have been a blow to his church, but it was music to the ears of Hollywood honchos—and to his fans, who were now able to chart his cinematic life on his new website.
Tom’s appearance on Oprah was seen as a smart move by media professionals. “I think Tom learned his lesson,” said Howard Bragman, founder of the L.A. PR firm, Fifteen Minutes. “The lesson was that sometimes your personal beliefs can get in the way of the projects.”
He also seemed to have heeded the advice of George Clooney, who suggested he learn to laugh at himself. In the next stage of his comeback, he reminded moviegoers why he had been at the top for twenty-five years—because he is a good actor. In Tropic Thunder, a satire of the movie industry by Ben Stiller released in August 2008, he played a fat, ugly, bald, and foul-mouthed executive. His cameo as a kind of “Hollywood Satan” earned high praise from the critics. “Who could have foreseen Tom Cruise nearly stealing the movie in a fat suit, a prosthetic nose, a skinhead wig and an Austin Powers–style mat of chest fur?” wrote Slate’s Dana Stevens. Cruise and Stiller had talks about making another comedy, an updated version of The Hardy Boys. First, though, he planned to move back into familiar territory, making an international spy thriller called The Tourist.
It was clear, however, that Cruise was at a career crossroads. While still a popular and attractive actor, he was no longer a sure bet to open a movie. Now at forty-six, his time as a heartthrob who could carry a picture armed only with his gleaming smile seemed to be coming to a close. As film critic Richard Crouse observed: “The days of line-ups around the block for the new Tom Cruise are gone even if he tried to revive his career with another Mission: Impossible or Risky Business Two. The smart money would be on him morphing into a character or supporting actor in big films.”
His “divorce” from his long-time business partner Paula Wagner, who had been by his side during his golden age, was a portent for the future. In August 2008 she departed as chief executive of United Artists, the studio she and Tom had taken over with ambitious ideas to make “edgy” films. Originally the plan was to release four films a year, but in two years they had released only Lions for Lambs. Hollywood insiders, quoting MGM executives, cited Wagner’s inability to green-light projects as the reason for the abrupt parting of the ways. “It had been simmering for some time. Tom likes action, Paula was not doing the business,” noted one movie veteran. Notably Tom snapped up the rights to author Duncan Preston’s thriller, The Monster of Florence, a couple of weeks after Wagner left.
Even as the studio issued statements that Tom was still “a full partner in charge of UA,” events were rapidly moving out of his control. In September 2008, Wall Street went into meltdown as financial institutions struggled to cope with a mountain of bad debt resulting from the sub-prime mortgage scandal. One of the casualties was United Artists’s financial backer, Merrill Lynch, the 100-year-old firm sold in haste to the Bank of America to save it from bankruptcy. As shell-shocked bankers dusted themselves off, the future of the movie industry was not high on their agenda.
Although a spokesperson for MGM, the parent company for UA, stated that the credit line was still in place, the New York Post quoted one banker as saying that To
m and his company might have to wait in line for cash to fund future films. “Reworking a $500-million-dollar credit line for UA is going to be way down Bank of America’s list of things to do. It could take six months to a year before they even get around to looking at it.”
In many ways the crisis on Wall Street could serve as a modest metaphor for Tom’s career. They were all masters of the universe, indomitable, invulnerable and inviolable, and they all fell crashing to earth. After their near-death experience, they lived to fight another day. More contrite, more considered and more controlled perhaps. But still standing.
It was a warm, balmy evening in mid-September, bringing out crowds of tourists and theatergoers on Broadway. On West 45th Street, a line snaked one hundred yards down the block as the audience waited patiently to take their seats for the first public performance of Arthur Miller’s 1947 play, All My Sons, starring John Lithgow, Dianne Wiest and a certain Katie Holmes.
The drama began several hours before the curtain went up. Outside the venerable Gerald Schoenfeld Theater, which has hosted such luminaries as Glenn Close, Richard Burton, Peter Ustinov and Tallulah Bankhead, about thirty demonstrators from the Anonymous Internet group, some wearing Guy Fawkes masks, gathered in protest. They held up banners reading, “Free Katie” and “Run Katie Run,” and handed out fliers saying that Scientology is a “dangerous scam that ruins lives.” For the most part the theatergoers who lined the sidewalk were bemused or mildly irritated, but the demonstration was a welcome photo opportunity for the banks of waiting TV cameras and paparazzi.
The predominantly white, middle-class audience did not seem particularly interested in Scientology. There were the curious who had come to take a closer look at the girl whose life had morphed into a daily tabloid drama; the thrill-seekers who wanted to watch Katie’s high-wire act, without the safety net of a retake; and, of course, theater buffs arriving to see award-winning director Simon McBurney’s take on Miller’s family drama.
However Katie performed during the play’s run, she would inevitably be measured by the success of Tom’s second wife, who had Broadway critics swooning after her performance in The Blue Room. It jet-propelled Nicole Kidman’s movie career, bringing Oscar glory and success independent of her former husband. Certainly the equally ambitious Mrs. Cruise III could do with a boost for her film career.
Rather rashly, she had turned down the chance to reprise her Batman Begins role in the latest blockbuster, The Dark Knight—Maggie Gyllenhaal took the part—while the crime caper Mad Money was deemed bankrupt of humor and made only loose change at the box office. The New York Post described her reappearance on the big screen as “the most cringe-making return since Love Boat—The Next Wave.”
When Katie first joined her fellow cast members for rehearsals in New York in May, the vultures began to circle. Redoubtable theater critic Michael Riedel predicted that the play was going to be a “resounding flop,” as the erstwhile leading lady had failed to sell the expected number of tickets. Describing Holmes as a “nice little actress,” he argued that she was only in the public eye because she was Mrs. Tom Cruise and that these days that was no draw.
With every seat in the house filled, the audience at the first preview performance seemed to think otherwise. Before the curtain opened, they were treated to a cameo role from Tom Cruise. Flanked by two bodyguards, he smiled, waved and posed for pictures as ushers vainly tried to stop the audience from snapping the grinning figure. The arrival of his friend, actor Dustin Hoffman, merely added to the buzz. It was an effortless display of star power, a consummate ability to light up a room. As Tom soaked up the adulation, the start of the performance was delayed by ten minutes.
The leading man, John Lithgow, caught the mood when he led the cast on stage and asked the audience not to take pictures. “Can we take just one?” yelled one woman from the gods. “No,” answered Lithgow firmly. Standing behind him was the tall, slim figure of Katie Holmes, wearing a curly wig to cover her new pixie hairstyle and a ’40s-style print dress. Was this cool, skinny, half-smiling young woman the tyrant who had, depending on the contradictory tabloid, tale of choice, thrown Tom’s family out of their Hollywood home, sought a separation from her husband, been pregnant four, or was that five times, and was so sick and wan that she had collapsed outside a Beverly Hills restaurant?
Her life might have been turned into make-believe, but now she had to convince the audience—and the critics—to believe in her. She had a secret weapon. For much of the play she was effectively reprising her role of Joey Potter, the winsome girl next door who won the nation’s hearts in the teen TV soap, Dawson’s Creek. Her stage character, Ann Deever, was another girl next door. But unlike Joey, this character called for a range of emotions as dark secrets were gradually revealed, the drama building to a tragic climax.
For the first couple of scenes, Katie was Joey redux, cute and lively, her eyes and gestures brimming with the anticipation of a bright future. It amused some of the audience that in the play an unseen character, a certain “Mr. Hubbard” kept calling on the telephone, proof perhaps that even on stage Katie could not escape the attentions of the founder of her newly chosen religion.
As the emotional mood intensified, she was less convincing; one theatergoer compared her to “the star actress in a high-school play” who was out of her league among the big boys—and girls—of Broadway. Of course, that was not the way Tom saw it. As the play ended, he was true to type, jumping out of his seat as if he were reprising his role on Oprah. After leading the standing ovation, he described her performance as “extraordinary.”
Outside the theater, several hundred fans—including Scientologists holding up banners saying “Well done, Katie”—waited for a glimpse of the leading lady. So many well-wishers gathered that mounted police were called to control the throng. Many stood out of idle curiosity, and yet the traffic-stopping scenes were reminiscent of the late Diana, Princess of Wales.
The comparisons did not end there. In the early days of Dianamania, she was defined by her marriage, her fashions and her children, Princes William and Harry. Her most inconsequential remark made headlines around the world.
As the new poster girl for modern celebrity, Katie Holmes seems to have, however unconsciously, learned those lessons, a star who is both beautiful and bland, a blank canvas for us—and especially the tabloids—to paint our fantasies. In interviews her responses are brief, guarded and inconsequential, endlessly repeating the numbing mantra that her life is “magical,” while dispensing trivial details of marital bliss and motherhood. Out in public she lets her fashions do the talking for her, sparking a craze, for example, when she started wearing rolled-up “boyfriend” jeans to rehearsal.
It was noticeable that when her acting colleague Dianne Wiest won her third Emmy for her role in In Treatment during the first week of the play’s run in September, it was pictures of Tom, Katie and baby Suri that captured media attention. What seems to be undeniable is that the new queen of bland has a growing constituency of other girls next door who admire the fact that she has made it and is living her dream. As she and John Lithgow emerged from the stage door to be greeted by cheers and a halo of flashlights, her blossoming popularity suggested that a star, if not a future Oscar-winning actress, was being born that night.
If so, Tom Cruise was not there to see it. For once he was waiting for her in the shadows, happy to let his bride take a bow.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Tom Cruise is one of the best-known and intriguing celebrities in the world, a Hollywood star as controversial as he is talented. In the writing of this biography I owe a huge debt of gratitude to a large number of people who shared their recollections, insights, and assessments.
Without the guidance and support of the following people, this portrait of Tom Cruise would have been much less substantial and textured. I would in particular like to thank Patricia Greenway, Nancy Many, and Tracy Nesdoly for their insights and commitment, as well as Daisy Garnett, Fiona Gray, Ali
and Lydia Morton, Delissa Needham, Tom Rayner, Jack Shenker, and Bronwen T.
Inevitably, given the passion for litigation exhibited by Tom Cruise and Scientology, many witnesses have chosen to give guidance and insight on a background basis. Their contributions have been no less valuable or appreciated. I have, however, been surprised by how many people have been prepared to speak openly about the movie star and his faith.
In the hothouse Hollywood jungle, where most like to stay in the shade, I would like to thank Peter Alexander, Paul Barresi, Janet Charlton, John Connolly, Richard DiSabatino, Mark Ebner, Marlise Kast, Sharlene Martin, Kim Masters, and Skip Press.
With its technical jargon, checkered history, and apocalyptic vision, learning about Tom’s faith is a not inconsiderable task, and many are still too scarred from their own experiences to talk openly. My thanks to those guides who “walked” me across the bridge to understanding: Chuck Beatty, Graham Berry, Maureen Bolstad, Nan Herst Bowers, Shelly Britt, Ursula Caberta, Tory Christman, Paulette Cooper, Vince Daniels, J. C. Hallman, Bruce Hines, Professor Stephen Kent of the University of Alberta, Canada, Christian Markert, Frank Oliver, Michael Pattinson, Karen Pressley, Jesse Prince, Phil Spickler, John Sweeney, Dave Sweetland, Michael Tilse, Professor Dave Touretzky of Carnegie Mellon University, Jeannine Udall, and Guy White.
While Tom and his agents have actively discouraged those who wished to examine the claims he has made about his childhood and schooldays, the fact that so many of his former teachers, school friends, and others were happy to reminisce, usually with much affection, about the boy they called Maypo, helped build an authentic portrait. I am most grateful to Asta Arnot, Lionel Aucoin, Bryon Boucher, Kathy Burns, Cathy Carella, Angelo Corbo, Diane Cox, Lorraine Gauli-Rufo, Sean Gauli, Amy, Babydol, and Tobe Gibson, Glen Gobel, Sam LaForte, Alan, Irene, Jennifer, Murray, and Scott Lawrie, Jonathan Lebendiger, Dr. Kevin McGrath, Carol McLaurin, Nancy Maxwell, Cathy Mindel, Nancy Price, Marilyn Richardson, Wendy Santo, Pamela Senif, Krystyna Smith, Pennyann Styles, Phil, Ron, and Vinnie Travisano, Sharon Waters, and Val Wright.
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