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Drive (Nicolas Winding Refn)
I am an auteurist at heart, and as much as this film is hand-tooled and sleekly designed as a vehicle (okay, I'll stop) for Ryan Gosling, in many respects it is Winding Refn's show. This is my second encounter with the director; most of his work, although lauded in some circles, has been rooted in genres to / for which I have no allegiance and limited patience. Little dollops of the Pusher trilogy I'd catch on the IFC channel never made me want to delve; his "Tarkovskian" (?!) medieval bloodbath Valhalla Rising just looked ponderous. And the only previous film of Winding Refn's I've seen, Bronson, was an irksome disappointment. Much like Valhalla among genre buffs and the "Game of Thrones" crowd, Bronson rode in on waves of buzz. Tom Hardy's charismatic performance as Britain's most famous career criminal was, so the story went, staged like an abstract opera of performative violence. Comparisons to Kubrick and to Derek Jarman abounded. But to me, Winding Refn, and Hardy for that matter, seemed to be stuck in a mode of second-order imitation, incapable of breaking through the stylistic aping to find the spontaneity and fresh gestures that bring a picture to life on its own terms. (The thing about tableaux vivants is that they depict violent acts that have already occurred; they can inform, but they cannot threaten or thrill.)
With Drive, Winding Refn hits the magic formula. I won't make great claims for the film, save to say that it is both stark and succulent, economical and baroque. The key is that Drive replicates a strain of cinema that, in its own way, was its own replicant. The 70s car film -- Two Lane Blacktop, Vanishing Point, Dirty Mary Crazy Larry -- but also the drive-in quickie more generally, a post-Corman recasting of the L.A. noir and the gangster flick in an urban neon key, evolved into an 80s cinema that, like our hero The Driver (Gosling), became "respectable" only in retrospect. Who, at the time, gave a shit about To Live and Die in L.A., or Thief, or Street Smart? Some hardcore auteurists were ahead of the curve. But just as gangster Bernie Rose (Albert Brooks) half-jokes to the Driver, the cheap films he used to produce in the 80s were trash, but some people considered them "European." Get it? So, unlike Tarantino, whose recombinant, hash-slung hypertexts demonstrate an active thought pattern, a maneuvering between high and low as a nonstop argument, Winding Refn can lovingly recreate a cinema that was in itself reductive, sculpted around iconicity, clipped dialogue, and velocity as a formal force.
And this is why Gosling is so perfect in this role. All he has to do is brood, look pretty and semi-tough, strike poses, help the jacket catch the light. (Drive, like so many Lynch and Scorsese films, owes so much to Kenneth Anger it's absurd.) Likewise Brooks, who delivers a miraculous turn as the ambivalent, aging Jewish crime boss who, along with his brother Nino (Ron Perlman), is stuck in the Mob equivalent of middle management. In Brooks's case, Winding Refn's shrewd against-type casting allows us to witness the swallowed, passive-aggressive rage of every schlemiel unloosed like a spring-trap. Far less successful, however, is Carey Mulligan as Irene, the designated innocent female / verboten love interest. Ordinarily I would complain about the lone woman character being so poorly fleshed out, but in truth she only needed to be an emblem like everybody else. She didn't have the presence to telegraph anything more than waifishness (which, regrettably, film executives seem to get off on). Though a shocking five (!!!!) years Gosling's senior, supporting player Christina Hendricks would've been a much stronger match for Driver.
At the same time, the very quality that serves Gosling (and Winding Refn) so well in Drive is a rapidly diminishing commodity. Gosling is a highly gifted actor in the Method mold; his versatility is, in some sense, a reversibility, a penchant for projecting masculinity as either cocksure (Murder By Numbers, Blue Valentine) or existentially uncertain (The Believer, The Slaughter Rule, Half Nelson). The key, of course, is that these are two sides of the same coin. All of this hits its apotheosis with Drive, becoming almost a Sunset Strip billboard for a faded fin de siècle doomed-romantic Quiet Man. Even though Drive wasn't the box office hit or Oscar magnet its studio (or critics) thought it would be, it has entered the vernacular in more sidelong, viral ways. Fan-produced posters dot the Internet, amateur artists all finding their own way to connect Drive and Gosling to that same gritty, disreputable movie history Winding Refn plumbs for its stoic gravitas. Gosling himself, meanwhile, has become the subject of the "Hey Girl" Internet meme, his brooding visage an all-purpose come-hither that can be jokingly tied to various unlikely messages (most of them leftist / feminist but not exclusively) in order to sex them up. What all of this means, of course, is that Gosling is in serious danger of becoming a parody of himself, something halfway between an expensive prop and an ersatz James Dean.
But the reason Drive works is because, like the incarnation of Gosling it utilizes, it is never less than immaculately composed. What's more, it does more than simply cut a sleek figure across the wide screen. It moves. (The near-silent opening getaway sequence is the best argument for Winding Refn's complete success.) It is perfectly appropriate, finally, that although our putative hero is "The Driver," he is not awarded titular status. Drive is named for an action, an imperative statement, or perhaps even one of the basic psychoanalytic forces. And what both The Driver and his final journey share at the film's conclusion is that they remain ambiguous and unknowable. Their vanishing points recede into an infinite distance.
Academic Hack
― stay in school if you want to kiw (Gukbe), Saturday, 25 February 2012 08:10 (twelve years ago) link