Drive. (18.)
Directed by Nicholas Winding Refn.
Starring Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, Bryan Cranston, Albert Brooks, Oscar Isaacs, Ron Perlman, Christina Hendricks. 100 mins
A taciturn, existential leading man is something to be, but it is something you have to be born to, rather than aspire to. With McQueen, Eastwood or Cooper you knew that the mask face was set in stone and you had a clear understanding of what lay beneath. Here the very talented Ryan Gosling has decided to have a bash at doing a stony face, restricting himself to maybe just a slight flicker around the mouth or a flinch of the jawbone. He’s not a natural; he's busy doing nothing. All the effort thoughmakes him oddly compelling because you never know quite what lies behind his fixed features – is he the perfect tough guy always a few steps ahead of the game or an empty headed droopy draws, keeping his peace because he’s a bit slow on the uptake?
The film belongs to the lone professional genre, where cold calculated men with no attachments go about their jobs in cold calculated unattached cities. Gosling’s nameless protagonist is the driver - movie stunts and getaways a speciality. At the start of the film he is the perfect professional – talented, disciplined and meticulously prepared. The audience knows this can’t last and that it will falter when he relaxes or breaks his strict professional code. And within minutes of the film starting he’s making eyes, or at least directed squints, at his perky single mother neighbour Carey Mulligan.
The film is shaped as a pristine piece of late 70s/ early 80s nostalgia. The obvious rip here is Walter Hill’s The Driver, another arid vision of big city crime about a driver without a name. But the film it feels closest to Thief, Michael Mann’s first feature film. The 80’s synth pop soundtrack, the backstreet locations, the pristine rundown look; even the colour and typeface of the credits seem to pay homage.
But the film doesn’t stick with this buttoned down minimalism and halfway through it bursts free of its period trappings in a rush of head stamping, knife thrusting savagery. Reviewers and preview audiences have been going mad for Drive but though there is much to enjoy – notably outstanding performance from Bryan Cranston and Albert Brooks - ultimately it struck me as quite a thin creation. It's the large cinema foyer standee of a great crime drama, rather than the great crime drama.
Drive. (18.)
Directed by Nicholas Winding Refn.
Starring Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, Bryan Cranston, Albert Brooks, Oscar Isaacs, Ron Perlman, Christina Hendricks. 100 mins
A taciturn, existential leading man is something to be, but it is something you have to be born to, rather than aspire to. With McQueen, Eastwood or Cooper you knew that the mask face was set in stone and you had a clear understanding of what lay beneath. Here the very talented Ryan Gosling has decided to have a bash at doing a stony face, restricting himself to maybe just a slight flicker around the mouth or a flinch of the jawbone. He’s not a natural; he's busy doing nothing. All the effort thoughmakes him oddly compelling because you never know quite what lies behind his fixed features – is he the perfect tough guy always a few steps ahead of the game or an empty headed droopy draws, keeping his peace because he’s a bit slow on the uptake?
The film belongs to the lone professional genre, where cold calculated men with no attachments go about their jobs in cold calculated unattached cities. Gosling’s nameless protagonist is the driver - movie stunts and getaways a speciality. At the start of the film he is the perfect professional – talented, disciplined and meticulously prepared. The audience knows this can’t last and that it will falter when he relaxes or breaks his strict professional code. And within minutes of the film starting he’s making eyes, or at least directed squints, at his perky single mother neighbour Carey Mulligan.
The film is shaped as a pristine piece of late 70s/ early 80s nostalgia. The obvious rip here is Walter Hill’s The Driver, another arid vision of big city crime about a driver without a name. But the film it feels closest to Thief, Michael Mann’s first feature film. The 80’s synth pop soundtrack, the backstreet locations, the pristine rundown look; even the colour and typeface of the credits seem to pay homage.
But the film doesn’t stick with this buttoned down minimalism and halfway through it bursts free of its period trappings in a rush of head stamping, knife thrusting savagery. Reviewers and preview audiences have been going mad for Drive but though there is much to enjoy – notably outstanding performance from Bryan Cranston and Albert Brooks - ultimately it struck me as quite a thin creation. It's the large cinema foyer standee of a great crime drama, rather than the great crime drama.
