Top gunning
Fighter pilots don't cruise at altitude. They stick it to the man. When appropriate.
I saw Top Gun: Maverick earlier this week. A friend had run into some free tickets. When he messaged me, I was nursing a nosebleed over the dinner table. Did I want go and see the movie? That night? You betcha I did.
My nosebleed soon eased upon receiving such life-affirming news. It was as if the open wounds in my nose cavity automatically knew that they had to begin healing up. My body was going into survival mode. In hindsight, I should have expected such a reaction. My brain had delivered a pre-emptive strike to my nervous system. It had anticipated the sheer amount of blood that would now have to be pumped to all my vital organs in order to cope with the thrill of seeing Mr. Scientology himself put on that famous badged leather jacket and go find another crazy wingman with which to shoot down some Migs (or some such other frightful enemy fighter plane). This was no time to be losing even one drop of plasma infused red and white blood cells (I didn’t pay much attention in biology class, don’t shoot me down here).
We marched into the cinema like the rebels we are. I had two small bags of popcorn in one hand that my wife had handed to me on the way out of the house, while my friend had two cans of beer hidden in the pockets of his jacket. We were STICKING IT TO THE MAN.
While the trailers were going on we even contemplated moving from our allotted seats to get a slightly better view. Yes, it was getting revolutionary.
The flick got going. Some cinema worker messed up the standards light-dimming manoeuvre, so the thing got going without the place being dark enough, but never mind. I’ve watched motion pictures in worse situations. Transatlantic flights with British Airways spring to mind.
Anyway, we then spent the next two hours or whatever it was, joyously watching Maverick (Captain Pete Mitchell, played by Tom Cruise) STICK IT TO THE MAN.
In the opening scenes, we see him as a test pilot for a supersonic jet that is trying to hit Mach 9. But some Admiral wants to shut the programme down. So what does Maverick do? Well, he goes directly against the orders of the Admiral, who prefers drones or robots or some such other hell-inspired technology to humans, and pushes the supersonic aircraft to a ridiculously fast speed.
Then he gets the call. He’s going back to TOP GUN. The United States Navy Strike Fighter Tactics Instructor programme. Being a former Top Gun graduate (from back in the 1980s) Maverick is chosen to do what only he can do. Or what he thinks he should be doing, that is. Which is to teach a young batch of recent Top Gun graduates how to kick ass while pushing their aircrafts and bodies to their maximum capabilities — no matter what the cost. They need to stop some bad guys from having the ability to do some very bad things. And the only way to do this is to dial up the risk-o-meter to 100 and then blow the whole damn thing up.
Not that Maverick’s superiors see it that way. They want to adopt a more cautious, casualty-friendly approach, because, well, you know, us plebs are just there to serve THE MAN. For them, if preserving a geopolitical status quo — for things to carry on “as normal” in other words — means sacrificing a few young pilots, then that is fine and dandy. And maybe it is. After all, those pilots knew they weren’t signing up to hand sew bespoke teddy bears when they walked into the academy.
Anyway, as a drunk old monk use to say to me at school, I digress.
Just when things seem to be going in the wrong direction, Maverick pulls back on the control stick, hits full throttle, and takes things to a whole new level. Once again, he STICKS IT TO THE MAN.
I won’t give any more anyway, but put it this way, Top Gun: Maverick is a truly refreshing throwback. It speeds along at Mach 9.8, only to slow down to hit some well-done emotional beats. It doesn’t follow any agenda, it doesn’t try to preach and it doesn’t try to sympathise or understand the bad guys. It’s black and white, straight down the line, pure entertainment.
And above all, it takes aim at the “authorities” and all their stupid ideas, and campaigns, and propaganda, and outrageous censorship, and blows it to smithereens.
Yes, it well and truly STICKS IT TO THE MAN.
Progress update:
The Man Who Wore Hats (working title) is at 56,876 words. *
The Gaff (my latest novella) is at 14,024 words. First draft is close to completion.
*The word count for The Man Who Wore Hats is static, as I have a new working method now. I will try for the next few weeks to concentrate only on ONE first draft of a novel or novella. Editing multiple works is OK. Writing multiple first drafts not so much. Not for me, at least.
Take it easy. And thanks for reading.