Today: February 29, 2024


High-octane…Adrenaline-fuelled…Pedal to the metal…Turbo-charged…Balls to the wall… These are all driving and speed-related clichés you’ll probably read in other reviews of Pusher director Nicolas Winding Refn’s crime thriller Drive so let’s get them out of the way now.

to the metal…Turbo-charged…Balls to the wall…

These are all driving and speed-related clichés you’ll probably read in other
reviews of Pusher director Nicolas Winding Refn’s crime thriller Drive so let’s
get them out of the way now.

Similarly, let’s get rid of crash
and burn, buckle up, collision course
and star vehicle. An
existential, neo-noir in the tradition of Michael Mann’s classic Thief or
Walter Hill’s The Driver, Drive’s a lot closer to a modern Western (swapping
horses for cars and a Man With No Name in Ryan Gosling’s nameless Driver) than
the wham-bam action of The Transporter or Fast and Furious movies.

By day, a stunt
driver in Hollywood B-movies, by night, the best getaway driver in the City of
Angels, the Driver (Ryan Gosling) is a taciturn, toothpick-chewing loner who
exists only to drive. You put him
behind the wheel, there’s nothing he can’t do. His rules are simple: “If I drive for you, you give me a time and
a place. I give you a five-minute window, anything happens in that five minutes
and I’m yours, no matter what. I don’t sit in while you’re running it down; I
don’t carry a gun… I drive.”
Nothing else exists for him.
Other than employer and middle man Shannon (Bryan Cranston) he has no friends,
no close ties, nothing he can’t walk away from. Bound by his own moral code, he lives a simple, almost
monastic, existence.

Life gets complicated however when he falls for waitress and single mom
Irene (a luminous Carey Mulligan)
who’s literally the girl next door, entering into a tentative, budding romance
and bonding with her young son Benicio.
Just when things are going well, Irene’s husband, Standard (Oscar Isaac), gets paroled from prison
and returns home, intent on going straight. Standard owes a lot of money to some very nasty people
however who want him to do a little job for them. When thugs threaten Irene and Benicio, leaving Standard
bloody and beaten, the Driver is compelled to act, offering to help out on the
job. But when the botched job
explodes into violence and double-cross, the Driver’s going to need to rely on
more than his skills behind the wheel to survive as he’s forced into conflict
with two middle-aged mobsters (Albert
and Ron Perlman)…

Visually and aurally the film is almost a throwback to the ‘80s as
Gosling navigates the glittering, nighttime cityscape to a cheesy pop synth
soundtrack, cocooned from the world in his ‘70s muscle car, Refn’s LA a dark,
gritty, minimalist vision of Hell, glistening, neon-splashed. The plot may be a familiar rag-bag of
clichés but Refn has created a bold, muscular, beautiful crime flick from Hossein
Amini’s intelligent, pared to the bone script which focuses on character rather
than macho heroics. The dialogue
is a joy of terse, hard-bitten exchanges.
When Gosling is first introduced to pragmatic crime boss Albert Brooks,
he apologises that his hands are a little dirty, Brooks philosophically replies
“So are mine.” On learning Gosling
is a stunt driver, Brooks sums up the whole film, confiding: “I used to make movies in the
’80s. Action films, sexy stuff –
one critic called them European.”

Like all good existential heroes, Gosling’s Driver is a man defined
purely by his actions. His
performance is magnetic.
Channeling every cinematic, taciturn, loner anti-hero from Steve McQueen to Clint Eastwood by way of Alain
and Takeshi Kitano,
Gosling is almost mute, a raging stillness at the heart of the film whose
placid surface masks both a shy vulnerability and an almost Old Testament
capacity for wrath. As the
achingly cute girl next door, Mulligan is almost heartbreakingly good and their
scenes together crackle with longing; their romance played out in glances,
stares, blinks and half-smiles, a study in delayed-gratification. When they’re around each other, their
shy awkwardness is palpable; his voice quivers, she almost basks in his
schoolboy grin. The moment when
they finally consummate their relationship; a tender, lingering slo-mo kiss in
an elevator, is swooningly romantic, a breathless, beautiful piece of cinema
which suddenly erupts into horrific, unspeakable brutality as Gosling attacks
and kills an assailant, shockingly stomping his head to gory mush.

The supporting cast is fantastic.
Isaac, the pantomime villain of Zack Snyder’s vacuous live-action
cartoon Sucker Punch, brings depth
and sensitivity to the role of Standard.
As Shannon, Driver’s friend and employer, Breaking Bad’s Bryan Cranston is noble and squirrelly in equal
measure, a perpetual loser, dreaming of one last big score while Mad Men’s Christina Hendricks is a
Jessica Rabbit-esque femme fatale.
She’s not bad, she’s drawn that way. Hellboy Perlman
is excellent as a bitter, small-time mobster with almost teenage delusions of
grandeur but even better is funnyman Brooks, both sympathetic and terrifying as
Perlman’s more level-headed partner with a propensity for offhand viciousness
and a fondness for razors.

As with all Refn’s films, Drive
is exquisitely paced. Taut and
unpredictable, suffused with menace, the film’s calm longeurs build into tense,
action set-pieces, brutality exploding from nowhere. You both dread and long for these staccato outbursts of
violence. A close-quarters motel
shootout is messy and savage.
Brooks almost casually stabs a victim in the eye with a fork. Gosling’s Driver becomes almost a
supernatural, hammer-wielding force of justice. Part-superhero, part-sociopath, his distinctive silver satin
jacket becoming increasingly bedraggled, reflecting his state of mind, both
steeped in blood. Ultimately
though, it’s the quiet, almost hypnotic, moments that stay with you after the
fury; the stolen glances between Gosling and Mulligan, the tentative touches,
the smiles that speak louder than any line of dialogue.

Thrilling, intense and icily cool, Drive
is a sublime cinematic experience.

David Watson

David Watson is a screenwriter, journalist and 'manny' who, depending on time of day and alcohol intake could be described as a likeable misanthrope or a carnaptious bampot. He loves about 96% of you but there's at least 4% he'd definitely eat in the event of a plane crash. Email:

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