I have already reviewed the 1997 Drive on this website, and although the 2011 Drive vibrated my arse-cheeks faster than my dick in a blender, the 1997 Drive still remains my favourite film ever. That is not, I REPEAT, NOT, to say that the 2011 Drive should be dismissed in any capacity. Think of it as 1997 Drive’s less attractive sister that you would nonetheless still penetrate. Don’t even get me started on a threesome.
So as you can tell, I fucking loved Drive. I suppose I better tell you why.
Drive is about this bloke who drives cars and does stunts and shit for the movies. He’s already pretty cool. However, at night he moonlights as a getaway driver. He’s now much cooler than you and all your shit mates put together. Then he gets involved with a right fitty who lives next door. He’s now so cool he can put ice cubes up his bum and they don’t even melt. Then it turns out he’s extremely proficient in the art of fucking kicking people’s heads in in elevators. He’s so cool now that if you touch him you’ll freeze and your balls will retract so quickly you’ll sick up two little frozen purple peas and your willy will shrink so quickly a bird will start attacking your bell-end because it thinks it’s a tiny snail.
Basically, he’s FUCKING COOL.
As is this film. It’s so bloody COOL that if you go to school then you’re not going to understand what the bloody hell is going on because it’s way out of your league. It’s self consciously cool, but not so much that you want to tear everyone’s face off with your elbows (such as shit like Detention), and you’ll earn bare respect points from the man dem just thinking about watching this bitch.
So, let’s start with Ryan Gosling. Now I haven’t seen him in anything before because it’s not really in my nature to sit on my bum with snot all over my nose crying and screaming for my blanky, but it seems every other film on his CV was clearly an unfortunate mistake on his part. I’ll let him off though, because in this he’s an absolute legend with a scorpion on his jacket (AND WHAT) who literally doesn’t give three snakes’ rectums about thunder-all rabbit shit. He’s a fucking hard man and he loves hammers – he’s basically like me but with a smaller dick. You get the picture.
In Drive, he saunters around, chats up the cute neighbour, drives the fuck out of some peng whips and causes all manner of sodding mayhem when the shit goes down like a motherfucker. HE’S MINT.
Next up, we’ve got the soundtrack. It’s full of sweet, pulsing French House (I’m a big fan anyway) and Tangerine Dream-alike sweeping synths and sexually atmospheric pads and I had goosebumps all over my pubes throughout. The music is such an essential part of the film, it’s hard to imagine the film without it. Oh wait:
Then finally we’ve got Nicholas Winding Refn, whose work I’m familiar with in the form of Valhalla Rising – a film about a bloke who is very quiet but very good at hurting people. Refn’s clearly good at that kind of thing because he’s gone for it again here – except there’s no vikings in it this time, which could have either made it worse (unlikely) or much better. Still, Valhalla Rising didn’t have neon lights and French House and elevator head-stomps so it sort of cancels everything out and I can calm down and pull my trousers up.
Every frame of the movie has clearly been meticulously planned and I assume a crack team of neon signs were on hand to offer advice lest a particular scene be not neon enough. Luckily, it is neon enough so don’t worry your pretty little matte head about it. It’s all perfect. Flawless neon shit up in this clitch.
You may have noticed that I mentioned Ryan Gosling doesn’t say much, but that doesn’t matter a sweaty, swinging pair of jots because the script is still ace. It’s never in your face (unlike Ryan’s boot), and half of its effectiveness is contained within what the characters don’t say rather than what they do – although how much of that is Refn’s input is unclear. Either way, it’s a wonderful example of how to tell a wicked story about a guy who’s much cooler than you. Seriously, stop standing there on your tiptoes squeezing your willy like a fucking numbskull.
However, you do have a chance. Watch this film and I guarantee you’ll walk out 10% cooler. Yes, of course you won’t be even close to the kind of unfaltering, supreme and truly magnificent coolness of beasts like me and Ryan, but you might stand a chance next time you want to talk to a girl without fainting and premming at the same time you squishy-bollocked slice of wet mincemeat.
I give the 2011 Drive 8 18s out of 10.