Retrospect: Drive (2011) is a perfect, perfect thing
Fun fact: The original plan for the film was for Hugh Jackman to lead and Neil Marshall of Centurion and Doomsday fame to direct. 😐
THERE in the world of cinema exists a rich pantheon of Los Angeles action dramas, and so many of these films rely on adrenaline-pumping speed, copious CGI, a sick Top 40 soundtrack and hot people being demonstratively hot to wow audiences and garner a hefty box office draw. Drive (2011), based on the James Sallis book and adapted by screenwriter Hossein Amini and director Nicolas Winding Refn, on its face, seems like a garden variety car flick with smarmy villains set in the backdrop of the nefarious underworld of Los Angeles. That’s what I originally thought at least back in high school when my girlfriends and I thought we were going into another hunky Ryan Gosling blockbuster at the peak of the actor’s Adonis period.
Of course, if you’ve seen it, you know it’s not, and after spending a week fixated on this film, background elements of the film became highlights for me, like Albert Brooks’ performance of a gruff, reluctantly violent Jewish mobster Bernie and briefly-referenced insecurity Nino (Ron Perlman) has endured all his life as a Jewish boy living among Italian mobsters on the east coast. But more than that I’ve developed a fulfilling appreciation for this film for its nuance and innovation in storytelling in a demanding world where the motivations for filmmaking, by and large, have absolutely nothing to do with filmmaking.
The common critiques I’ve read and heard of the film are that its slow, there’s not as much action as people may think, and why don’t the Driver (Gosling) and Irene (Carey Mulligan), the romantic relief of the film, say more than five words to each other. The Hughesian, purely evocative dynamic between the two romantic leads relies on the intangibles and the unspeakables, offering a greater picture of unconditional love that feels new and unseen. It never holds the story hostage in favor of exposition (the main character doesn’t even have a name) and, in turn, shows great respect for the moviegoer. Critics also questioned Refn’s use of violence, accusing the director for gratuitous bloodshed that disrupts the tone. I don’t think that’s an unfair reading of the film’s gore, but in my view the violence is a true-to-life, albeit stylized accent to the filthy underworld of the locale.
Most people praise the film for its soundtrack and cinematography, a neon, melancholy revisiting of 1980s aesthetics and sounds. “It’s just very...cool,” a friend, whose favorite movie in the world is Drive, recently told me when I’d brought up I’d watched the film multiple times over one weekend. And it is cool. Ryan Gosling, hammer in tow, donning the now-iconic scorpion bomber jacket walking through a strip club hallway is this generation’s Steve McQueen as Frank Bullitt in Bullitt. Drive leverages nostalgia, but it’s never heavy-handed, a refreshing example of a film that tastefully borrows yet still feels like its own, unique, singular thing; it is a Franken-film that has shades of Michael Mann, William Friedkin, Peter Yates and David Lynch. It watches like a love letter to the greats, a muted celebration of a bygone era of cinema that placed craft over pomp, true expression over marketability.
The funny thing about this film, though, is that there aren’t many actual behind-the-wheel scenes, and much of the film’s magic is driven by the characters themselves, and the complex decisions they must make. The story is actually laconically paced, allowing the actors and atmosphere to move the narrative along without much else. It’s the opposite of a getaway driver — it’s in no hurry to get from point A to point B but that doesn’t mean it’s necessarily slow. Traditionally, a film like this would have the feel of a hard rock song, but it’s paced like a jazz song; sometimes it cuts quickly, sure, but most times it lingers, using time to evoke the most appropriate levels of uncertainty, warmth, anxiety and fear.
Fun fact: When producers contacted Ryan Gosling for the main role, they told him he could pick whatever director he wanted, and he chose Nicolas Winding Refn.
I rediscovered this film about a week ago purely because it was the only (free) thing available on my roommate’s Amazon Fire Stick at the time. I was home alone and didn’t just want to work on my writing in silence. Although I’ve seen this movie before, it resonated differently eight years later as a 25-year-old living in Los Angeles, just blocks away from the apartment building heavily featured in Drive. Though proximity alone wasn’t what appealed to me, this film enhanced my psychological understanding of the city more than any other film.
Los Angeles is the capital of stardom and the global center of the who’s who. Its reputation as a vapid, silicone-injected populace — while not necessarily true for a majority of the city — squarely corresponds with the paradox of crowded isolation: the original anti-social social club. Drive hits differently than other films that take place in Los Angeles because it captures so clearly the dichotomy of loneliness in a city that is, frankly, overpopulated. Through our many hustles, we meet hundreds of new faces, make countless connections and establish loyalties with one another. But at the end of the day, our constant companion is privacy, whether physical or emotional or both, and Refn’s story-telling directly taps into that desire to suppress nocturnal impulses either to reverse the isolation or accelerate towards it.
Refn has described the kiss in the elevator as the heart of the film, and it is, 100%, which is why I disagree with the assessment that the violence takes away from what the film is really about. In a Google Image search of “Drive movie scenes” screenshots and gifs of that scene show up more than any other scene in the film. Both the Driver and Irene are lonely in their respective lives but in that brief moment, it’s as if the loneliness never existed. An honest love connection, whether romantic or platonic, is hard to come by in this city of hustlers. But however fleeting, it is what we remember.