Except, in the opening caper - some guff about computer files in a Prague embassy - all but two of Cruise's crew are spectacularly offed. Mind, since one of them is Emilio Estervez, no one complains too much. Gradually Tom realises he's been set-up. The government figure him for a mole and his survival only proves their point. As a consequence he's on the run to clear his name in a pleasingly convoluted plot that involves hiring other disavowed agents and dealing with a charismatic arms dealer called Max (Vanessa Redgrave). Do they win? Do things go bang? Does Tom wear clingy trousers to show off his tight arse? What do you think?

Let's not pretend that this is anything other than a super-slick piece of summer blockbusting. That's what director Brian De Palma is doing aboard, the man what made The Untouchables and that hysterical, criminally underrated comic book, Streets of Fire. The film is essentially built around three elongated capers - the embassy, the CIA computer break-in, the Channel Tunnel finale - the remainder being padding to expedite the next jaw-dropping moment. Why is a Prague restaurant built entirely of gargantuan fishtanks? When you realise Tom has a stick of explosive chewing gum in his pocket, you don't need ask. And it looks fantastic when it happens, too.

The highlight is undoubtedly the computer bust, with Tom and his people getting inside the Langley headquarters and concocting a method to breech the 'black vault' itself - laser beams, temperature alarms, sound alarms, pressure alarms - that is as absurd as it is fabulous cinema. For ten minutes Cruise and his arse hang suspended in the vault, the big Hitchcockian tension revolving around that drop of sweat trickling slowly down his cute wire-rim spectacles.

The performances are all subservient to the action of course, with only Redgrave really looking like she's aware of the inherent nonsense of it all. Jon Voight is ridiculous as TV's Jim Phelps, bricklike Ving Rhames sits around looking mean (for which he is particularly suited), and Kristin Scott-Thomas gets iced almost before she can open her mouth. Top Frenchies Emmanuelle Beart and the ursine Jean Reno are there too, but while he's having fun, she does little beyond pout seductively.

But so what? The fact is, when Lalo Schifrin's marvellous theme kicks in our response is Pavlovian. Danny Elfman's suitably pompous score tries to do likewise, but it's the virtually silent heist that you remember.

It's a 'PG' Bond film then, out-Bonding Bond. True Lies tried something similar, but this is shorter, smarter, more exciting (you'll believe a helicopter can fly down the Channel Tunnel) and neither as carelessly racist or misogynist. It'll self-destruct in your mind five seconds after it's over, but for those five seconds it'll have believing you just saw the greatest motion picture ever made.