Faced with the cockiest flyboy in the history of naval aviation, Rear Adm. Chester “Hammer” Cain does not mince words. “Your kind is headed for extinction,” he tells the one and only Pete “Maverick” Mitchell. The admiral is talking about the obsolescence of fighter pilots in an age when bombs are dropped remotely from a strip mall outside Las Vegas.
Director Joseph Kosinski, who worked with Cruise on Oblivion, but more relevantly directed Tron: Legacy , fills Scott’s big jackboots by committing fully to his magic-hour aesthetic. The first few minutes come within striking distance of shot-for-shot remake territory, as that same opening epigraph fills the screen in that same font while that same synth score from Harold Faltermeyer rises majestically on the soundtrack.
Kosinski’s aerial action is breathtaking. Like Scott, he knows how to convey altitude and speed, and to coherently crosscut between cockpits to turn every training exercise into a group show of dovetailing dilemmas and volleying wisecracks.
The movie will suck just like he does
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