The following is an op-ed by Matt, who invoked the Equal Column Space clause of an agreement nobody remembers signing after Norm's Tom Cruise manifesto ran. The management could not stop him. Norm could not be stopped from annotating. His notes appear in italics, where they were pried from the margins.
Norm got five paragraphs to tell you Tom Cruise is the greatest actor of all time, which is the boldest possible defense of a man everyone already likes. That's not criticism, that's a parade. Real criticism is standing up for the artist the culture has agreed to laugh at. So let me say what this publication is apparently too cowardly to print: Steven Seagal is the most underrated actor of his generation, and I have receipts.
Exhibit A, and frankly I could rest here: Under Siege (1992). A legitimately great action picture — tight, mean, funny, gorgeous — that went on to receive two Academy Award nominations. (Norm's note: for Sound and Sound Effects Editing. The Oscars nominated the noises, Matt.) The noises don't happen without the man making them happen. Casey Ryback, Navy SEAL turned cook, is one of the decade's perfect action premises, and Seagal plays him with something no other star of the era had the confidence to attempt: total calm. Schwarzenegger strained. Stallone bled. Seagal simply walked toward the problem at a reasonable pace, as if violence were a scheduling matter. That's not limited range. That's minimalism.
Every action star of the eighties was doing opera. Seagal was doing jazz — specifically the kind where you're not sure it's on purpose, which is the most dangerous kind.
(Norm's note: he is describing a man whispering.)
Exhibit B: the company he kept. Under Siege was directed by Andrew Davis, who went directly from that film to The Fugitive — the greatest thriller ever made, starring Harrison Ford, a man I will hear no criticism of. Follow the chain of custody: Seagal proved Davis could run a blockbuster, Davis got The Fugitive, Harrison Ford got a Best Picture nominee. Steven Seagal walked so Harrison Ford could run. (Norm's note: Seagal has never once been filmed convincingly running, which is its own genre of cinema and the only part of this paragraph I'll cosign.)
Exhibit C, and this one Norm should respect, given his manifesto's entire architecture: the man does it for real. A legitimate aikido master — among the first Americans to run a dojo in Japan — which means every wrist-lock in Above the Law and Marked for Death is the actual discipline, photographed. Norm gave Cruise five paragraphs for hanging off an airplane. Seagal spent whole films redirecting stuntmen into furniture using authentic technique, and the culture gave him a nickname about his run. Where's the parade? (Norm's note: Cruise broke an ankle finishing a take. Seagal's later films feature him fighting entire rooms from a chair. These are not the same résumé.)
And On Deadly Ground — which he directed himself — ends with a speech about environmental catastrophe that was, I'm sorry, simply early. We mocked it in 1994. (Norm's note: it won him a Razzie for Worst Director, and the speech was originally eleven minutes long. The studio begged. BEGGED.) Fine. Visionaries get Razzies. That's practically the definition.
I'm not asking for a statue. I'm asking for intellectual honesty: "underrated" is a math term. It means the gap between how good someone is and how good people say they are. The culture says Seagal is a punchline. The tape says Under Siege, says Andrew Davis, says a real martial art performed by a real master while an entire genre was faking it. That gap is enormous, ergo: most underrated actor alive. The logic is airtight, I've asked that no one check on it, and this column will return next month, pending the outcome of a meeting I've been asked to attend.
(Norm's final note: the meeting is about this column. It will not return next month. He also pitched "Fred Claus at 20." The meeting is also about that.)