“Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol” surprises us by recycling the plot from two of the first three films in the series and still managing to rework it into something truly inventive and engaging. I could have sworn that this franchise was long out of gas, and I admit that I groaned a bit when I heard that “M:i-III” was not going to be the final chapter in the chronicles of Ethan Hunt, superspy. “Ghost Protocol” is helmed by Brad Bird, the man behind Pixar’s “The Incredibles.” This automatically makes him the most unexpectedly obvious directorial selection this year. In the hands of such a creative as he, I’m not only convinced of the franchise’s continued vitality, but also on board for however many more they want to make, as long as they don’t hire a complete idiot to spearhead the operation.
In point of fact, this might be the first true sequel to the 1995 blockbuster that we’ve seen. “Ghost Protocol” is the only follow-up so far to replicate the pleasantly campy atmosphere that made the original so endearing. Most of us will agree to forget John Woo’s terrible second film, which concerned itself more with slow motion and karate chopping (oh yeah, and lots and lots of doves) than plot. J.J. Abrams’ third installment had the best villain of the series in a creepily deadpan Philip Seymour Hoffman, but the worst MacGuffin in the “Rabbit’s Foot,” which Abrams’ tiresome secret-mongering refused to let us know the slightest detail about. Not to mention that Ethan’s impending marriage, though a handy plot element, felt more like a gimmick than anything else. “III” was a blast of an action film, but didn’t feel any more ideologically in line with the original than “2.”
I was surprised, honestly, that “Ghost Protocol” didn’t try to sweep Ethan’s wife under the rug, and even more astonished that it managed to get some drama out of her mysterious absence. And that’s the first of its storytelling innovations. “Ghost Protocol” provides us with two other phenomena that are virtually unheard of in espionage fiction.
First, it shows us an adventure that is, in essence, the purest dramatic realization of Murphy’s Law I’ve seen. Everything that can go wrong in this film does go wrong, often in a darkly comedic manner and always at the least opportune moment. Ethan and his team are, for quite possibly the first time, in way over their heads. Watch any James Bond film before “Casino Royale,” and you’ll know that this is simply not done. The master spy always knows what to do; is always cool under any circumstances. But in “Ghost Protocol,” we see a team pushed to its limits. Ethan’s sarcastic reply to a comrade’s statement of the obvious – while dangling harness-free along the face of Burj Khalifa (a truly harrowing and beautifully shot sequence that serves as the film’s centerpiece)– is not only the biggest laugh of the film, but also one of its most human moments.
“Ghost Protocol’s” second innovation is what may be called the singe-handed creation of the physically vulnerable action character – you know, the antithesis of the bullet-resistant hero that we mock whenever we watch an Arnold Schwarzenegger film. When gunshots are taken in this film, our team members feel the effects… and when bones are broken, as in the frantic climactic showdown between Ethan and this year’s psycho-villain extraordinaire Hendricks, they stay broken. This means that by the end, the two men aren’t sparring anymore so much as crawling. It is both a strangely humorous and riveting image, and it certainly means that the action hits home more than it would otherwise. It really is the simple things like these that can make or break an action movie this outrageous. “Ghost Protocol” succeeds in a big way.
A word must be said about Hendricks, because his character is unfortunately the film’s weakest element. It’s the second time this season that an excellent Swedish actor (here Michael Nyqvist, another “Dragon Tattoo” alum along with “Sherlock’s” Noomi Rapace) is left with woefully little to do. Nyqvist is mostly asked here to stand aloof from the action and look evil, though he must also occasionally spout some really ludicrous stuff about nuclear war being necessary for “reaching the next stage of human evolution,” and reluctantly fistfight Tom Cruise in the film’s final minutes. Critics complained about Philip Seymour Hoffman’s “Owen Davian” having no personality in the third film, but I think that can be said far more of Hendricks in this one. The Hollywood gears must be grinding hot in preparation for Christmas. I’ll never understand what compels executives (or sometimes even the actors themselves) to stick good people in lousy roles.
Hendricks, however, is honestly such a small presence in the film that his blandness doesn’t distract much from the fun. And there is the best sort of fun to be had here. For sheer holiday spectacle, the IMF has you covered, and looks to be in business for quite a while.
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