Director: Nicolas Winding Refn
Writer: Hossein Amini, James Sallis (novel)
Year: 2011
Cast: Ryan Gosling, Carey Mulligan, Bryan Cranston


It is rare that the director of a B-movie wins the big prize at Cannes, but it is a testament to the quality of Drive that Nicolas Winding Refn managed to pull it off. Of course, Drive is not a B-movie in the strictest sense – it has a sizeable budget and features two of the hottest young stars in the business – but it certainly has a B-movie feel. That is not a criticism at all. It could just as easily be described as an arthouse blockbuster, but B-movie is more affectionate, and closer to the spirit of the film.

The trailer implied that Drive had little more to offer than fast and furious action, but Refn uses and subverts typical driving films to great effect. It opens with a getaway, not your usual drive fast dodge traffic blow up road tankers kind of getaway, but one that sees the Driver (Ryan Gosling) favour stealth and ingenuity over his powerful engine. The Driver is an enigmatic figure, silent, sensitive and psychotic. He is a getaway driver, a stunt driver, a racing driver, a mechanic – whatever you need him to be.

Actions speak louder than words for Ryan Gosling’s Driver.

After completing the job, the Driver meets his neighbour, Irene (Carey Mulligan), and her young son. He fixes her car and gives her a ride back to their Hollywood apartments. A simple relationship develops; he stares and smiles, she smiles back. They barely speak. We find out that her husband, Standard (Oscar Isaac), is in jail, but later he is let out. His past catches up with him and he is badly beaten up. The Driver decides to help him out for the sake of Irene, a decision which lands him in bigger trouble than he could have imagined.

The plot is interesting enough but takes a back seat. Events happen but most are disconnected and underdeveloped. Essentially, Drive is an exercise in style. It’s saturated in it. Everything is washed over with a retro eighties twist, from the bright pink titles and synth-heavy soundtrack to the cartoonish ultra-violence on show. It even has a montage. It’s intensely theatrical, especially towards the end. Refn plays with light, plays with slow motion; you get the sense he had a lot of fun with Drive. The prevailing sense of unreality also creates one of the best depictions of Hollywood in recent years.

Gosling carries the film superbly with an up-to-date version of the old-fashioned antihero. He is extremely dangerous but possesses simple charisma and a heart of gold; he is the type of character you can root for. The other performances are also strong; Mulligan is not exactly stretched but is always loveable, Albert Brooks gives a good turn as the more intelligent of the two gangsters, and Bryan Cranston is superb as the Driver’s friend and mentor, Shannon.

Not everything in Drive works though, and it is important not to get carried away. Refn flawlessly creates the right atmosphere for his film to flourish but doesn’t always back it up with enough substance. There are some stunning scenes and the momentum builds slowly, but the film is badly let down by its ending. The final confrontation is spoiled with a poor choice of shot, and the plot somehow manages to swerve around its conclusion.

As I said at the beginning, Drive is a B-movie, and is best enjoyed on that level. It is better than most, because the talent is better than most. Refn is an excellent director and he is working with great actors. Drive is an endearing and stylish film, but not one to be taken too seriously.

Rob Dickie

Hobo with a Shotgun

Director: Jason Eisener
Writer: John Davies
Year: 2011
Cast: Rutger Hauer, Molly Dunsworth, Brian Downey


If nothing else, Hobo with a Shotgun delivers what it promises, and delivers it by the bucket load. Like last year’s Machete, it is based on a trailer produced for the Tarantino/Rodriguez homage Grindhouse. In comparison, however, Machete is grindhouse for the masses.

The look of the film grabs you immediately, everything is washed over with an exaggerated garish Technicolor. Then, revelling in its own theatricality, it dives straight into an obscenely over-the-top execution in which the bad guys are introduced, Drake (Brian Downey) and his preppy but psychotic sons Slick (Gregory Smith) and Ivan (“Introducing” Nick Bateman). A woman dances in a shower of blood spurting from the victim’s neck, she licks it seductively from her fingers. It sets the tone.

There is plenty of gore on show, and it is well done. It’s excessive but we expect nothing else. Jason Eisener pulls out all the stops. There are too many examples to list, but there is one fabulous sequence which involves someone being stabbed with the jagged bone from a cut-off forearm. Other positives include a great eighties-style soundtrack, continuity issues galore and several nods to old-school horror flicks, notably Peter Jackson’s Braindead towards the end.

Rutger Hauer stars as the Hobo, who in true B-movie style has to choose between a life of probably-suicidal vigilante crime-fighting or purchasing a lawnmower (both of which incidentally cost $49.99). Hauer is great in his role, striking the perfect balance between incoherence and menace – in this context, far more of the former than the latter. The obligatory hooker is played by Molly Dunsworth, who also does exactly what the film requires of her.

The film is good fun, but never quite enough fun to justify not giving the audience anything more coherent. Disappointingly, there are few great lines, and the dialogue is fairly weak, even bearing in mind its tongue-in-cheek intention. I am undecided on The Plague (The Plague are some kind of medievally-clad demons, who are apparently impossible to kill unless you have a lawnmower handy). There are memorable moments, such as when the Hobo delivers a soliloquy to screaming infants in a hospital, but for the most part it is forgettable.

Hobo with a Shotgun revels in its excess. It is a more sincere attempt than Machete to create a homage to grindhouse cinema, but is perhaps less successful for it. Homages are difficult to do well, because they aren’t trying to do anything except recreate. They have nothing really to say. The great grindhouse films did, however crudely they put it.

Rob Dickie