Dri­ve

Over­laid against the neon back­drop of LA, Col­lege and Elec­tric Youth’s shim­mer­ing synth con­jures an image of ​‘a real human being – and a real hero.’ But Dri­ver (Ryan Gosling) isn’t either of those things. His trans­for­ma­tion from anti­hero to aveng­ing angel pow­ers a film of stom­ach-flip­ping twists and hand­brake 180s that esca­lates – grad­u­al­ly, inex­orably, ter­ri­bly – from qui­et romance to ecsta­t­ic vio­lence. And all you can do is hang on for the ride.

Based on the 2005 nov­el by Jim Sal­lis, Dri­ve is a clas­sic slice of pulp noir reimag­ined by Dan­ish direc­tor Nico­las Wind­ing Refn as a stun­ning­ly vio­lent fairy tale. Dri­ver is a wheel­man – the go-to get­away guy for the city’s classier crim­i­nals. For the right price, you get five min­utes: any­thing hap­pens in that five min­utes and he’s yours; any­thing hap­pens a minute either side and he’s dust.

Refn sketch­es these details in an open­ing sal­vo that sees Dri­ver wait­ing out­side the site of an armed rob­bery before escap­ing from under the noses of the police. Shot almost exclu­sive­ly from the inte­ri­or of the vehi­cle (pulse-like sound­track; engine rat­tle and clat­ter), it estab­lish­es Dri­ver as a man for whom action is char­ac­ter. Impas­sive and tac­i­turn, his most affect­ing qual­i­ty is still­ness. But like the cars pre­pared for him by friend and garage-own­er Shan­non (Bryan Cranston), Driver’s unre­mark­able façade delib­er­ate­ly masks the fear­some capa­bil­i­ty beneath.

Though Refn made his name as Denmark’s answer to Mar­tin Scors­ese with thug life dra­ma Push­er, here he’s chan­nelling the foren­sic cool of Michael Mann. Thief is the obvi­ous ref­er­ence point (lon­er pro­tag­o­nist is dri­ven to an act of ter­ri­ble revenge), but there’s a wider sense in which Refn has repli­cat­ed Mann’s abil­i­ty to cap­ture the nuances of LA itself.

Though a potent loca­tion in crime fic­tion, as a cin­e­mat­ic icon, LA has found itself over­shad­owed by East Coast rival New York. Dri­ve goes some way to rec­ti­fy­ing that, as Refn cap­tures the squalid beau­ty of the city in stun­ning­ly crisp dig­i­tal images.

The City of Angels has nev­er looked so ethe­re­al, whether viewed at night from high above the sky­scrap­ers, or down below, eyes pressed up hard against the street. Because for all its oth­er­world­li­ness, nei­ther has LA looked so real as it does in the unfor­giv­ing sun­light – so inhab­it­ed, so rich, so full of dra­ma and stories.

Driver’s sto­ry is buried some­where in a past we know noth­ing about. Where Sal­lis was mere­ly cir­cum­spect about the details of his life, Refn (and scriptwriter Hos­sein Ami­ni) jet­ti­sons them com­plete­ly. Dri­ver is a man with­out a past – an arche­type (a knight on a white Dodge Charg­er) who exists only in this time and this place.

And Gosling – ever the chameleon, ever the reluc­tant Hol­ly­wood play­er – invests him with just enough char­ac­ter to hint at those hid­den lay­ers. Dressed in den­im and dri­ving gloves, he evokes a young John Wayne, but moves with a dancer’s swag­ger, as if to a rhythm only he can hear.

There was a peri­od when Gosling’s intran­si­gence began to look like a lack of con­fi­dence. As his peers scooped up roles in com­ic-book block­busters or banked fran­chise pay-cheques, he worked inter­mit­tent­ly, in res­olute­ly small films, refus­ing to be tempt­ed by – or test him­self in – the big stu­dio show. But if Half Nel­son was the film that made his career, Dri­ve is going to make Gosling a star.

It’s a per­for­mance that relies on a phys­i­cal­i­ty and pres­ence he’s only hint­ed at before. Driver’s few spo­ken lines are dragged reluc­tant­ly from his mouth, and emerge at a sur­pris­ing­ly fem­i­nine pitch. But if that voice and those Droopy eyes sug­gest some inner vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty, it’s a fan­ta­sy soon put to rest.

And yet the point at which Refn stamps on the accel­er­a­tor is also when Dri­ve begins to lose trac­tion. When Dri­ver falls for his neigh­bour, Irene (Carey Mul­li­gan), he dares to imag­ine a dif­fer­ent kind of life, until Irene’s hus­band, Stan­dard (Oscar Isaac), is released from prison. Up to his neck in bad debts, a seri­ous beat­ing in front of his young son (where, in the pecu­liar­ly grue­some depic­tion of Standard’s injuries, we receive our first hint that Dri­ve is up to some­thing) con­vinces Stan­dard to ask Dri­ver for help, which is how he finds him­self act­ing as wheel­man on a clas­sic heist-gone-wrong.

The after­math of this event pulls Dri­ver into the world of low-rent gang­ster and one-time movie pro­duc­er Bernie, (Albert Brooks) along with his part­ner Nino (Ron Perl­man), who is him­self into some seri­ous shit with the East Coast mob. When Bernie brings the fight to Driver’s door, Dri­ver responds with a dou­ble-bar­relled blast of vio­lence, and Dri­ve sud­den­ly shifts from slow-burn­er into high-octane revenge thriller.

That shift is encap­su­lat­ed in the film’s most mem­o­rable scene – a stun­ning col­li­sion of eroti­cism and bru­tal­i­ty that only a mas­ter mani­ac like Refn could pull off. In an ele­va­tor, con­front­ed by one of Nino’s hench­men and with Irene about to leave him for­ev­er, Dri­ver kiss­es her before turn­ing on the oth­er man. It’s a moment of exquis­ite and con­tra­dic­to­ry emo­tions – love, atone­ment, vengeance and rage – coa­lesc­ing and com­bust­ing with star­tling feroc­i­ty. It is Driver’s last chance at redemp­tion before both he and the film reveal their true nature – a nature that even Gas­par Noé would find hard to stomach.

But as Dri­ver pass­es through the final stage of his trans­for­ma­tion – from aveng­ing angel to mur­der­ous spec­tre – he pass­es the point at which the audi­ence might care to sit shot­gun. And as you’re released from the grip of Gosling’s seduc­tive charis­ma, nag­ging flaws sud­den­ly become apparent.

As a pair, Gosling and Mul­li­gan are too cal­low to sug­gest that years of hard liv­ing have tak­en their toll. Mulligan’s per­fect, unblem­ished skin exudes the healthy glow of movie star­dom, not the rav­aged stress­es of a sin­gle moth­er. And as all she’s asked to do is smile sweet­ly, keep her mouth closed and look soul­ful, she has lit­tle oppor­tu­ni­ty to bring Irene to life.

As Driver’s actions turn from vengeance to psy­chosis to insan­i­ty (sane peo­ple don’t turn up to work in a blood-stained jack­et to col­lect a prop for the mur­der they’re plan­ning), it’s very dif­fi­cult to main­tain any empa­thy. The fairy tale con­text may explain the film, but it doesn’t make it any eas­i­er to watch.

Nor is this a ques­tion of squea­mish­ness. The fact that the vio­lence is filmed in unflinch­ing and shock­ing detail (with knives, ham­mers and cut-throat razors all play­ing their part) is to the film’s cred­it – and entire­ly in keep­ing with its pulp roots. But once Dri­ve reach­es that fever-pitch plateau, it has nowhere else to go. Refn, for all the extrav­a­gant machis­mo and tech­ni­cal inge­nu­ity of the film’s direc­tion, shoots him­self into a corner.

But even then, that vir­tu­os­i­ty, allied to Cliff Martinez’s glit­ter­ing score, is the fuel that pow­ers Dri­ve beyond the head and straight into the gut. This is the sin­gu­lar vision of a direc­tor who proves him­self an arti­san of cin­e­mat­ic vio­lence, one whose com­mit­ment to that vision will brook nei­ther argu­ment nor dis­sent. And at the last, the dénoue­ment returns to the film a serene sense of beau­ty paid for by the sac­ri­fice that Dri­ver makes in the wan­ing sun­light and wax­ing shad­ows of LA.

Every good fairy tale involves a quest for some­thing. Driver’s is for puri­ty and grace. Refn’s is for redemp­tion in the Hol­ly­wood sys­tem that near­ly destroyed him. Both of them have found what they’re look­ing for, even if it comes with strings attached. For audi­ences look­ing for an ice-cool, uncom­pro­mis­ing and gut-wrench­ing pulp thriller, the search ends here.