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If deception is indeed an artform, then Drive is its Mona Lisa. It's a deliberately paced cruise through the electric life of a stunt man/getaway car ace where nothing is what it seems and very little plays out the way you expect. In the hands of the devious Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn (responsible for the equally engaging Bronson and Valhalla Rising), it's a brutal, bravura shock, an unexpected thrill outside the firecrackers exploding onscreen. While some may consider it noir, it's far nastier than that. In truth, it's more like the rot revealed whenever the layers of La-La Land are pared away. From Chinatown to LA Confidential, this is another stunning example of the City of Angels as a den of demons -- and the one noble man who decides to wallow through it all.
Our driver (Ryan Gosling) is a likeable, loose cannon loner. By day, he
helps out his mechanic buddy Shannon (Bryan Cranston) both at the repair
shop he owns and the various movie sets where he coordinates stunts. At
night, however, the duo work as wheelmen for the local syndicates.
Driver's rules are simple -- for five minutes during the crime, he will
do whatever he can to help. A minute before or after, the crooks are on
their own.
Over time, our hero befriends his next door neighbor, a convict's wife named Irene (Carey Mulligan). He especially enjoys spending time with their son, Benicio (Kaden Leos). When her spouse, Standard (Oscar Isaac) returns from prison, he brings a problem along with him. Driver agrees to help out, not knowing that his association will lead to a direct conflict with the East Coast mob and their West Coast equivalent, Nino (Ron Pearlman) and producer turned boss Bernie Ross (Albert Brooks).
Like a cosmic link to the direct-to-video efforts of the '80s, Drive is a B-movie wrapped up in the cloudy musk of some sizable A-list swagger. It's a love letter to Los Angeles and the genre-defining works that have emanated from its dream factory. It's pretense piled on top of payoff, gravitas given flight with the inclusion of brilliant acting and sudden, shocking gore. Since Refn is no stranger to viciousness, the blood drenched bits are not all that surprising. What is amazing is how, by carefully controlling all the cinematic elements -- performance, plot, pacing, production design -- the foreigner redefines the American Crime drama.
Refn's reverent approach, a combination of scholarship and sacrilege, is aided by some amazing casting decisions. Few would find Albert Brooks menacing, and yet his Bernie Rose is unbelievably bad-ass. During the last act, when words give way to violence, the former funny man exhibits some sizeable menace. Similarly, Gosling goes for the slowburn silent simmer, and you can practically feel the heat. You just know that if and when he explodes, the body count will be high. Surrounding them is able work by Mulligan, Cranston, and Pearlman, all given a chance to add their own unique angle to the plot.
But Refn is the real star. His detailed artistic choices -- '80s retro synth pop on the soundtrack, Driver's moldy satin scorpion jacket -- mesh effortlessly with the needs of the narrative, creating a universe unto itself. While we recognize the setting, what goes on inside is pure pulp madness. Even better, we never quite know what's going to happen next. The story suggests one thing, but Refn makes sure to never follow the formula. The result is a sly September surprise, a bit of near greatness in all the gunk. For a movie as crooked as its characters, Drive ends up a straight-ahead thrill ride.
Over time, our hero befriends his next door neighbor, a convict's wife named Irene (Carey Mulligan). He especially enjoys spending time with their son, Benicio (Kaden Leos). When her spouse, Standard (Oscar Isaac) returns from prison, he brings a problem along with him. Driver agrees to help out, not knowing that his association will lead to a direct conflict with the East Coast mob and their West Coast equivalent, Nino (Ron Pearlman) and producer turned boss Bernie Ross (Albert Brooks).
Like a cosmic link to the direct-to-video efforts of the '80s, Drive is a B-movie wrapped up in the cloudy musk of some sizable A-list swagger. It's a love letter to Los Angeles and the genre-defining works that have emanated from its dream factory. It's pretense piled on top of payoff, gravitas given flight with the inclusion of brilliant acting and sudden, shocking gore. Since Refn is no stranger to viciousness, the blood drenched bits are not all that surprising. What is amazing is how, by carefully controlling all the cinematic elements -- performance, plot, pacing, production design -- the foreigner redefines the American Crime drama.
Refn's reverent approach, a combination of scholarship and sacrilege, is aided by some amazing casting decisions. Few would find Albert Brooks menacing, and yet his Bernie Rose is unbelievably bad-ass. During the last act, when words give way to violence, the former funny man exhibits some sizeable menace. Similarly, Gosling goes for the slowburn silent simmer, and you can practically feel the heat. You just know that if and when he explodes, the body count will be high. Surrounding them is able work by Mulligan, Cranston, and Pearlman, all given a chance to add their own unique angle to the plot.
But Refn is the real star. His detailed artistic choices -- '80s retro synth pop on the soundtrack, Driver's moldy satin scorpion jacket -- mesh effortlessly with the needs of the narrative, creating a universe unto itself. While we recognize the setting, what goes on inside is pure pulp madness. Even better, we never quite know what's going to happen next. The story suggests one thing, but Refn makes sure to never follow the formula. The result is a sly September surprise, a bit of near greatness in all the gunk. For a movie as crooked as its characters, Drive ends up a straight-ahead thrill ride.
