Drive, more so than just movie, is a highly stylized piece of art. Thinking of it in those terms, it’s rather fucking brilliant. Comprised of iconic movie moments, and, simply put, beautiful to look at, so many scenes could easily exist as only stills.
The film’s plot is as slow as molasses, coming as a surprise toward the movie’s middle and exploding in cringe worthy violence. Moments tell the story, and the film’s gory undertone makes it special. Our driver, for all his good looks and subtle sweetness, is fucked up. It’s in the action where that’s conveyed.
Ryan Gosling stars as Drive’s lead: a stunt driver by day, getaway driver by night. This is a remarkable little piece of acting. To call the driver mysterious would be an understatement. Remaining nameless throughout the entire film, our driver partakes in very little dialogue. It’s in this lack of words that a character is created. From the white satin jacket with a golden scorpion embroidered on it’s back, to the toothpick he chews on while serving wry smiles, it’s a tried and true method for character development: a James Dean look, with a Brando fury that shows itself only in flashes.
In an interview with Conan O’Brien, Gosling describes Drive as a kind of Pretty in Pink, but with a lot more violence. Perhaps that is the most apt description of Drive I’ve heard to date. It mirrors so many of John Hugh’s methods, a sweeping pop soundtrack, a pretty girl in a rough situation and a bad ass boy with a secret soft side to save her. It distinguishes itself in where it goes, taking old pop culture standbys to their darkest extremes.
Drive is playing in US theaters now, and starts in UK theaters Friday, September 23rd.
Sarah McBride is an impassioned pop-culture enthusiast. Her thoughts on music, film, lit and life can be found at sarahism.com. You can follow her on twitter @sarahism.