Drive on

Rating: 3/10 (24 September 2011)

Danish director Nicolas Winding Refn's Bronson was an attempt to do something strange which came across as depressingly ordinary, whereas his latest – starring a stolid Ryan Gosling as the nameless "Driver", and Carey Mulligan as his angelic neighbour, Irene – seems to be something very ordinary made quite strange, mostly through the use of slo-mo in the emotional bits as much as the action.
There isn't all that much action. Certainly very few car chases. When it hits, the violence hits hard, but it's all mired in long stretches punctuated by wordless glances, pregnant with nothing but beauty and elegant framing. It's like some crawling period drama for angrily repressive mechanics. Thankfully it is accompanied by Cliff Martinez's delicious ambient score, so you could just close your eyes.
The plot is first-rate "meh": a one-last-job affair with sexless damsel-in-distress underclothes. The Driver gives his clients a strict five-minute window (the reason for which, even after he's explained it twice, is never entirely clear), before he bails out – but five minutes is all he needs. He doesn't carry a gun; he'd prefer to force-feed his enemies bullets.
We know that Driver is our hero because he's the only man who doesn't shout all the time. Bernie (Albert Brooks) and Nino (Ron Perlman) are particularly perturbed. Their over-the-counter barneys are strongly reminiscent of those Grand Theft Auto cut scenes we tend to skip. In fact, the whole italicised neon credits thing and the 80s-esque synth score is pure Vice City, except without the fun.
At least Mad Max had a reason to be mad. From where does Driver's psychotic streak stem? Valhalla Rising suggested that Refn positions man's capacity for violence somewhere deep in his soul, so I guess a backstory isn't necessary. Bryan Cranston puts on a good show as the half-crippled Shannon, who might as well have an enormous glowing target on his forehead.
Comparisons with Michael Mann are inevitable, particularly the neo-noir nightmarescape of Manhunter, and the homoeroticism of Heat. Difference is, in both cases Mann was shooting a screenplay of quality and distinction. Drive, by comparison, is about as distinct as a cigarette flicked from a passing car.