Drive is an extended advertisement for a particular form of masculinity; a product from another time and place. The mysterious hero, named only Driver, is a character mashup – he is Charlie Bronson’s vengeful fist blended with Sam Peckinpah’s bloodied and tragic anti-heroes.
Ryan Gosling shows his acting versatility once again. He is gallant and cool; he doesn’t end up with the girl, because in the end he would just be too dangerous. This is the film tailor made to enable men to fall in love with the attractive Gosling.
There is so much to dislike about this movie. It’s thoroughly artificial; utterly contrived in almost every aspect of the production (plotting, characters, themes). The music thumps and chews away, reminding the viewer this is an exercise in pure style. The story is wafer-thin, giving enough texture and pseudo-emotion to create the form of a world, but scarcely enough to fill it with substance and meaning. It’s made to be experienced rather than reflected upon.
There’s some absolute zingers of artifice to be enjoyed here. Albert Brooks’ sinister Bernie keeps a collection of jewelled daggers in a display case purely in order to shows us the depths of his evil – he slays good people in his spare time. And Ryan Gosling’s Driver has all the accesories for the real man. He dons a jacket akin to those worn by the neaderthalish Cobra group in Karate Kid; this one has dried blood mashed into its metallic sheen. His macho quota is multiplied whenever he chews on a toothpick, which happens to be for most of the film.
Nevertheless, despite all these things, and more, Drive is highly effective and impressive. It was hard not to be moved by its style, its sense of tragedy and its honour code. As Ryan Gosling’s Driver still moves off into the night, even now, I begin to wonder what this accomplished actor will do next.
I don’t think it succeeds despite these “flaws”, I think it succeeds because of them.