When one thinks of the Mission: Impossible franchise (okay, after one gets the theme song out of one's head), what comes to mind is a pair of top-flight directors (Brian De Palma and John Woo) hamstrung by the blockbuster expectations of the studio, to say nothing of the will of its notoriously hands-on producer/star. Neither film was difficult to watch, exactly. De Palma's entry managed to sneak in a few of the filmmaker's patented snaky spatial riffs, while Woo's had… well, there was that cool bit with a scarf. Still, the whiff of missed opportunity was strong. Clearly, in retrospect, what was needed was a director young and hungry enough to shoot the moon, yet humble enough to comfortably work within the system. In short, a TV guy.

Enter Alias/Lost creator J. J. Abrams, whose television work displays a genuine affinity for the ol' cloak and dagger, as well as a winningly snarky knack for subverting the dustier conventions of same. His feature debut lives up to his small-screen predilections, which should please audiences and studio accountants alike. Abrams's lack of big-screen experience does occasionally betray him, particularly in a few geographically confusing set pieces. (You're sure that something exciting is happening on the screen, but it's hard to pinpoint exactly what.) Still, his is the first installment that really seems to get the enjoyably dorky, Radio Shack–ish charms of the source material. If you have a soft spot for folks desperately clambering through tunnels while nattering about problems in Delta Sector, this is the summer movie for you.

Abrams's script, cowritten with Alias cohorts Alex Kurtzman and Roberto Orci, finds Tom Cruise's IMF hotshot semi-retired to instructor status and on the cusp of settling down with adorable nurse Michelle Monaghan. Before long, however, circumstances draw him back into the field, in the person of Philip Seymour Hoffman's sociopathic arms dealer with a grudge. Stuff goes boom.

This rather A-to-B plot is fleshed out with a number of killer supporting acts, including Laurence Fishburne, Shaun of the Dead's Simon Pegg, and especially Hoffman, who makes for an amusingly direct, pissy supervillain. It's with Cruise, however, that the director pulls off his biggest coup. Pesky personal matters aside, there's always been something uncomfortable about Cruise's screen presence—that feeling that he's always blaringly on, giving even the quietest moments 140 percent. Abrams's solution—steadily jacking up the emotional and physical intensity to match the star—pays huge, pleasantly exhausting dividends. He's got game.