The following is a pre-release position by Norm — the first in this publication's history. The management notes that advance positions are dangerous, accountable, and permanent, and that Norm filed this one unprompted, at dawn, with supporting exhibits. Matt was shown a draft and responded "what about—", at which point the door was closed. The ledger will revisit this document on October 2, 2026. Norm has requested that it be revisited "ceremonially."
This office does not do anticipation. Anticipation is a marketing department's word for hope, and hope is not a line item. In the entire history of this ledger I have judged finished films only — the thing on the screen, at its actual length, minus applicable taxes. So understand the magnitude of what is happening here: I am filing a position on a film that does not come out until October 2, in writing, under my own name, on a website where nothing is ever forgotten. This is either the most confident act of my career or the shortest. The evidence says confident. Let me show you the evidence.
The film is Digger, directed by Alejandro G. Iñárritu, and it stars Tom Cruise — regular readers may consult my manifesto, published, footnoted, 6:40 in the morning — as one Digger Rockwell, an eccentric billionaire with a comb-over, a substantial belly, and a thick Southern accent, in a satirical black comedy about, and I quote the official material, "the most powerful man in the world" racing "to prove he is humanity's savior before the disaster he unleashed destroys everything." Read that sentence again. A dark comedy. About a powerful man's self-inflicted catastrophe. Starring the greatest actor of all time, in full transformation. Gentlemen, they have made a film out of my dossier.
The manifesto already contains the controlling precedent, and it is Tropic Thunder: hand Cruise a belly, a bald cap, and permission, and he becomes unrecognizable and the funniest thing in the movie. Digger Rockwell is that clause, funded at $125 million.
Consider the corroborating exhibits. The screenplay is credited to Iñárritu with Alexander Dinelaris Jr., Nicolás Giacobone, and Sabina Berman — which is to say the Birdman engine room, and Birdman is what a comedy looks like when it's served the way this office orders them: dry, dark, and without a laugh track. The supporting bench is Sandra Hüller, Jesse Plemons, Riz Ahmed, Michael Stuhlbarg, Emma D'Arcy — a cast list that reads like a subpoena of everyone doing serious work this decade — and John Goodman as the President of the United States. Yes. That John Goodman. This publication recently entered Walter Sobchak into the record as "a functioning legal system"; the system has now been elevated to the White House, and I consider the country to be in capable hands.
And the craft file: shot on 35mm in VistaVision at Pinewood, playing in IMAX. Physical film, physical sets, a format they revived from the 1950s because digital wasn't good enough. I don't hand out credit for equipment — but a production that files its paperwork on actual celluloid is a production that respects an audit, and the first footage — including a trailer in which Cruise, as Rockwell, hollers at an iceberg — suggests a film that knows precisely how ridiculous its powerful man is. Treating a ridiculous man's arguments with total seriousness: I cannot imagine why that device appeals to me.
Now, the material grievance, because regular readers know this office litigates history. Three Oscar nominations. Zero wins. The Academy went oh-for-three on the most reliable performer of the modern era, and I have carried that file for years, alongside the Denzel matter, in the cabinet marked 1993 AND RELATED CRIMES. Here is what the Academy should understand about Digger: Iñárritu is the director this industry uses to pay its debts. Leonardo DiCaprio waited twenty-two years; Iñárritu handed him a snowbank and a bear, and the debt was settled by March. Cruise has waited FORTY-FIVE. The precedent is exact, the vehicle has arrived, and the engraver should be warming up. If the Academy fails to convene properly this time, this office will issue a finding, and the finding will be laminated, and we all know how that goes.
One item remains open, and I address it now, publicly, for transparency: the runtime is not yet confirmed. The Runtime Office has accordingly prepared a waiver in advance — signed, undated, sitting in the drawer. This is not a conflict of interest. I have investigated myself and found nothing.
So let the record show the position. On October 2, this office will be closed, because this office will be AT the movies, in an IMAX seat, watching the greatest actor of all time disappear into a comb-over for a director who builds award ceremonies out of exactly this kind of swing. The thumb is up in advance — a thing I have never done, will likely never do again, and expect to be right about, because I am filing it on the strength of forty-five years of compound evidence and one iceberg-hollering trailer. If the film somehow fails, this document will still be here, because nothing leaves the record — and I will answer for it the way professionals do: at length, under protest, with a chart.
Editor's note: this is the first advance position in site history. It has been notarized, entered into the permanent record, and scheduled for ceremonial revisitation on October 2, 2026. Matt has asked that the record reflect he "has a bad feeling about the comb-over." The record so reflects. The record is also confident it knows which of these two men owns more Cruise memorabilia, and it is not the skeptic.
Both positions — Norm's filed, Matt's informal — are now tracked at The Predictions Ledger and will resolve automatically the day this office publishes its real Digger review.