I’m going to avoid any vehicular puns here, but to use to obvious metaphor, Drive is an American muscle car. Sleek, sexy, and extremely powerful – but not overly refined or with much intricacy going on beneath the surface. But it’s an absolute triumph of style over substance, and the simplicity of what the story presents means that its effects linger for a long time afterward - a bit like if that same muscle car plowed into you at top speed at a zebra crossing.
Ryan Gosling’s lead character doesn’t even have a name – he’s simply Driver. Working in the day as both a mechanic and a stuntman, at night, he pulls in some (read: lots of) extra cash as a wheelman for LA’s crims. But despite his ill-gotten gains, Driver continues to live the simple life in a bare and dingy apartment, his smoldering looks taking the place of actually talking.
However, his existence is flung down the crap creek when he befriends the so-beautiful-it-hurts Irene (Carey Mulligan). Her recently released ex-con husband owes some local mobsters a hefty sum, which leads to him robbing a pawnshop to pay off the debt. Wanting to play the good Samaritan, Driver offers up his getaway services.
The break-in goes about as smoothly as a back massage from a bull mastiff – and from there on, stuff properly kicks off. It would be spoilerific to say much more than this, but it’s a furiously paced and genuinely tense ride until the end. It’s also ferocious and will make you think twice about ever shaking hands again.
It’s a visual treat, with neon lights playing against a gray, grainy palette, and the muted atmosphere gives the events much more impact.
Gosling is also excellent at channeling his inner near-silent film star. All of this combined with a score that’s perfectly composed and compiled means that Drive is a breed of a heist movie that’s never anything less than wheelie good.