Colin Sheridan: Tom Cruise’s insane journey from Oprah’s couch to cult worship at Cannes

His posture is designed to portray a certain humility, like he is not worthy of the praise given to him. He also wants you to know that he absolutely is

Tom Cruise and Hayley Atwell attend the premiere for Mission: Impossible - The Final Reckoning during the 78th Cannes Film Festival in Cannes, France. Picture: PA

It’s exactly 20 years since Tom Cruise hopped up on Oprah Winfrey's couch and — in front of a live studio audience — dramatically proclaimed his love for his actress girlfriend Katie Holmes. Such an act of lunacy should have put paid to any notion the actor had Irish blood in him, because if he really did, Holmes would’ve been lucky to get a Brown Thomas voucher for Christmas.

Afterwards, the actress may well have wished she was going out with monosyllabic Mick from Mullingar because Cruise’s couch-jump became one of the most iconic and ridiculed moments in television history. He was on the show to promote his collaboration with Stephen Spielberg in War of the Worlds. All he ended up doing was confirming the existence of aliens. At least one of them, anyway — him.

A month later, Cruise appeared on NBC’s Today show with Matt Lauer, and things got a little more sinister. Lovestruck on Oprah, the actor much less agreeable, labeling psychiatry a “pseudoscience” during a conversation that was as unhinged and uncomfortable. 

Responding to Lauer’s questioning of the actor's comments on Brooke Shields, whom Cruise had criticised for talking publicly about her use of antidepressants to combat her postpartum depression — he told the presenter: “You don’t know the history of psychiatry, I do.” 

He went on to argue that there are no such thing as chemical imbalances in humans, a position very much in line with the teachings of Scientology. His involvement with the controversial church had never been a secret, but up until the Lauer interview, he had rarely been so public in promoting its views. 

While the Oprah interview was disconcerting for its manic energy, the Lauer version was weirdly compelling for its menace. Both stand as exhibits of extremely narcissistic behaviour.

Cruise would marry Holmes 18 months later. His best man at the lavish ceremony in Bracciano, near Rome, was a chap called David Miscavige, who also stood for him when he married Nicole Kidman, 16 years before. 

Miscavige is the current leader of Scientology. Amongst the allegations that have been levelled against Miscavige are human trafficking, forced labour, child abuse, and harassment of critics — all of which he denies.

Multiple lawsuits have accused Miscavige and the Church of Scientology of engaging in human trafficking and forced labour. 

Plaintiffs allege they were subjected to abusive conditions, including forced labour, isolation from family, and indoctrination from a young age. A particularly notable controversy involves the unexplained absence of Miscavige's wife, Shelly, who has not been seen publicly since 2007. 

Despite inquiries and concerns raised by former members and the public, the church has maintained that she is simply living privately, though this has done little to quell speculation and concern about her well-being. Nothing to see here, then.

As for Cruise and Holmes — they divorced in 2012 and, a year later in a court deposition, Cruise acknowledged that Holmes filed for divorce "to protect Suri from Scientology," and admitted that his involvement with the church played a role in their estrangement. It is widely understood that Cruise and his daughter — now 19 — have no relationship.

Tom Cruise attends the premiere for Mission: Impossible - The Final Reckoning during the 78th Cannes Film Festival in Cannes, France.

Who Cruise does have a relationship with is his public. The couch long forgotten, the shot on Brooke Shields an afterthought, and his jibes on psychiatry written off as a man having the courage to speak his mind, everything Tom Cruise has touched since the release of Top Gun: Maverick in 2022 has turned to gold. 

Last year, organisers overlooked every living French cultural icon — like there aren't many of those — and chose Cruise to parachute in and light the Olympic flame at the opening ceremony in Paris. 

This week in Cannes, he was paraded around like — dare I say it — a cult leader, celebrated as the star who saved cinema when covid threatened to turn movie theatres into museums. Co-stars wax lyrical about his generosity on set. 

Directors swoon over his professionalism and drive. Fans are blinded by the wattage of his classic Hollywood smile. For each testimonial to his genius, Cruise sits at the edge of his seat, leaning towards his subject, his smile half-cocked, his eyes locked in a gaze so intense it could fell a horse. 

His posture is designed to portray a certain humility, like he is not worthy of the praise they give him. He also wants you to know that he absolutely is.

Even the most glowing tributes to Cruise’s movie stardom usually end with the same joke: that he’s insane. Jumping from buildings, hanging onto flying airplanes, running on broken ankles. “He really is insane,” his co-stars tell us, repeatedly. 

In the moment of the telling, they seem like acolytes themselves, but maybe the true meaning of what they are saying is hiding in plain sight.

After all, many a true word is spoken in jest.