Film Review: Drive

By day he is a Hollywood stuntman, by night a getaway driver cruising the streets of LA for realz. Our stoic hero, a monosyllabic loner with nerves of tempered steel remains nameless apart from his function. He drives. That's all he does. But he's the best. When our 'Driver' (Gosling) falls for winsomely appealing Irene (Mulligan), her husband's involvement with vicious gangsters prompts him to become errantly involved in an increasingly dangerous mob conflict.

The plot is about as conventional as you can get, but that's not why Drive is great. It's stylish visuals and retro-80s feel coupled with a fantastic script and performances are what makes this a winner. What's more amazing about Drive though is how precariously it sits on the edge of failure. Had it been any director other than Nicolas Winding Refn then this could so easily have fallen flat on its otherwise engaging exploitation of garish tropes. Gosling, who also produced the film, made a sound decision in bringing the Danish director on board which was clearly exemplified by his Best Director Award at Cannes this year. Certainly, this is one of those few films where style triumphs over substance, no more immediately evident than in its opening scene. 'Driver' performs a seemingly impossible getaway for a couple of armed robbers, effortlessly evading police without so much as breaking a sweat. It is truly one of the most thrillingly intense scenes put to film this year and proves to be absolutely hypnotic. Cutting to opening credits we are engulfed by Drive's second greatest asset, an invigorating 80s synth tribute which plays us in as pulsating pink neon font resembling that in 80s classic, Cocktail, overlay incredible panoramic shots of LA. Drive is certainly one stylish film.

It is Gosling however who proves to be the star attraction, whose role could easily have been filled by any one of the generic macho brutes Hollywood has to offer. But this would have been the wrong option, a choice which almost certainly would have plunged Drive into inanity. Fortunately Gosling is perfectly cast, his Ohio-farm boy good looks serving to accentuate the tension of what's going on underneath the surface. Wary and softly spoken, Gosling remains an enigma throughout the film which works in tandem with his almost vacant expression as his awkward, superficial attempts to interact with people scream a sense of alienation. There's also a very noble quality to 'Driver', as well as a romantic side. When he meets neighbour Irene the two begin hanging out, her son immediately warming to him as he takes them on a day trip to a river bank while the soundtrack informs us that "he's a hero, a real human being". Despite 'Driver' barely able to string two words together, Irene develops a crush and the two begin exchanging the most tender of looks and half-smiles. Even when Irene's husband is released from prison our 'Driver' doesn't just accept him but becomes his protector too, getting involved in a gang-dispute which has nothing to do with him.

And yet, this seemingly gentle man is anything but as he shifts from being very calm, quiet and deliberate in his actions to moments of explosive violence in a play between indolence and swiftness. Revealed to be harbouring a savage passenger, Dexter fans will no doubt love this. Here we have a man seemingly determined to protect the innocent while struggling against an appetite for salacious violence. The most stark juxtaposition between the 'Driver's' two sides comes when he passionately kisses Irene in a lift before immediately descending into a brutal attack on an assassin while she looks on in abject horror. Indeed, Drive's graphic violence has proved to be a talking point among critics, described as "shocking" and "grotesque" by many. Admittedly it's not as frequent as some analysis might have you believe, but what is shown is particularly pitiless. From fisticuffs to razor blades and hammers, Drive will undoubtedly make you wince. However, if we analyse Drive's most gruesome portrayal of brutality, a scene where 'Driver' mercilessly stomps on a villain's head, what we really see is more imagined through the conveyance of sound rather than any particular imagery. Yes, Drive is bloody, but then it doesn't really show anything you probably haven't seen before.

The supporting cast are also excellent, although perhaps a slight disappointment is how understated Carey Mulligan is. However, what she does do is more than convincing and with an added charm which makes her annoyingly likeable. The brilliant Bryan Cranston from Breaking Bad is Shannon, acting as something of father figure to 'Driver'. While there is no doubt that he genuinely seems to care for the kid, the down on his luck mentor is also keen to exploit him by getting him to race. However he first needs money to build a car, in which he turns to two gangsters for funds. Albert Brooks plays Bernie Rose, a former movie director and seemingly genial, reasonable man before his sadist traits are inevitably revealed. His partner, the more uncouth and belligerent Nino (Perlman) is equally frightening in his unpredictable eruptions of violence.

Drive is a neo-noir movie romanticised with a prodigiously well-realised 80s pastiche. Its main appeal comes from its uncanny ability to capture that 80s cocaine zest and dauntlessly transplant it into the current day. Likewise Gosling's performance is mesmerising, no mean feat given that any other actor would probably have tipped Drive into the realms of absurdity. This is myth creation at its finest. When we arrive at our destination we have more questions than answers. Who is he? Where did he come from? Why is he like that? What was the moral of it all? And regardless of this burning desire for answers, you will just be glad you went along for the ride.

Film Review: Conan the Barbarian

This remake business is getting a bit out of hand isn't it? Does no one have an original bone in their body anymore? Are movie-goers doomed to an eternity of iteration upon iteration? One would certainly hope not. But epitomising this trend of late is German-born director Marcus Nispel, someone who has built a career on remaking other people's movies (Friday the 13th, The Texas Chainsaw Masacre, Frankenstein). Unsurprisingly then his latest work is also another re-imagining, that of John Milius' Conan the Barbarian.

In the Hyborian Age of beards and broadswords, evil Khalar Zym (Lang) murders the chief (Perlman) of a barbarian tribe whilst in search for the last piece of a magic mask. Years later the son of the chief, Conan (Momoa), is determined to avenge his father's death by killing practically everyone else. Along the way he gets involved with Tamara (Nichols), the last of an ancient bloodline whom Zym needs to complete a ritual that will activate the mask and enable him to rule the world. Or some such tripe...

Of course, you don't go into a remake expecting something groundbreaking and this new Conan is no exception. Blood and boobs, both are here. What you do expect from remakes however is how they will inevitably shit all over the memory of the original you enjoyed all those years ago. Again, Conan is no exception. In which case it might be unfair to chide those responsible for this work of unrelenting barbarism. However, even with such low expectations this incarnation is pretty bad, omitting everything which gained the original its pulp classic status, most glaringly the Austrian behemoth himself. Indeed, Arnie's are big boots to fill. So big in fact that even the hulking figure of Jason Momoa, whom many will recognise from Stargate Atlantis and Game of Thrones, looks like a scrawny little child compared to the Teutonic slab.

To be fair, Conan the Barbarian has a reasonably captivating if unambitious opening involving a narrator spinning some yarn of dungeons and dragons while a camera pans across a dingy, windswept landscape. Shot in Bulgaria, the country certainly has a knack for strangely alluringly drab environments, cinematographer Thomas Kloss truly capturing some fascinating locations and stunning imagery. We are introduced to Conan, plucked from his mother on the field of battle, and follow him through his teenage years to manhood in the form of Momoa's rippling form. However it is this stage of adulthood where everything starts to go wrong, the film descending into a farcical circus of hacking and maiming. Conan, as you might expect, is dedicated to unfettered carnage. In 3D.

The plot becomes largely inconsequential, merely existing to shift characters along from point A to B. There's something about a magic mask and the need of 'pure blood' from an extinct lineage of sorceresses to activate it, but the film doesn't waste any more time explaining this than it took you to read that sentence. There's less acting than there is grunting as blank avatars flex and pose to ludicrous effect. Dialogue isn't welcome in this men of men's world, typified by a scene in which Rachel Nichol's character threatens to get chatty, only for Momoa to silence her by stuffing a rag in her mouth.

Indeed, Nichols proves to be a forgettable love interest, literally yelping and screaming so much to be heard that you begin to wish someone put her out of her misery. Momoa is a drab slate without hint of personality or charisma while Lang is just about passable as your generic villain. Perhaps the only person seemingly involved is Zym's daughter Marique (McGowan), a seductive sorceress who's the only character that infers any real menace. Action set pieces, while impressive the first time round, wear thin by the sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth time you see them to the point where all this sadism and barbarity is justified on the basis that, well, Conan is a barbarian. Indeed, our hero is so blank that he is almost indistinguishable from the bad guys. He fights under no moral code, nor does he stand for any kind of principle.

Conan the Barbarian exists to hack and maim as much folly as possible, purely for the sake of showcasing as much sadistic carnage as it possibly can. It's pure primitive savagery and as if to hammer this home Conan neatly surmises this film's philosophy on life, stating "I live, I love, I slay, I am content". It's the simple things after all, isn't it? In which case you might enjoy this simple film. Moreover though this lacks any sense of fun that in theory it should have in spades. It's all rather drudging.

Film Review: Bunraku

Set in the future, Bunraku takes place after a devastating world war. So devastating in fact that guns have been banned in an attempt to quell the 'natural' human instinct for violence. A mysterious drifter (Hartnett), no, make that two mysterious drifters (Gackt), travel to a town ruled by the iron fist of a man known as Nicola the Woodcutter (Perlman) and his band of killers. Joining together, the brooding cowboy and honour-bound samurai set out to settle their personal scores against Nicola and free the town from his clutches.

Bunraku is your typical tale of betrayal and revenge, with a somewhat unoriginal Star Wars 'twist' at the end for good measure. In this sense it offers nothing new, even its 'distinctive' artistic style having all been done before. It is a world where East meets West, something akin to the sci-fi television series, Firefly; a Sin City-esque comic book movie in colour, stealing the video game elements and plinky plonky retro arcade music from Scott Pilgrim with a hint of the campness shown in Joel Schumacher's Batman Forever. It's a fusion of styles; vibrant, colourful, but ultimately a splat of paint on a blank canvas. In many ways, writer and director Guy Moshe has achieved something similar to Zack Snyder's teenage boy's wet dream, Sucker Punch. It's all nonsense and exists only to look cool. It neglects narrative and character in much the same fashion, merely plonking one-dimensional archetypes in an epileptic fit inducing world. It even uses the same concept of adding a voiceover who feels its place is to interject every now and again. Pretentious Confucianisms such as "Death has no messengers. It delivers itself" impart its own brand of mangled philosophy, supposedly to sound vaguely East-Asian and so keeping in tone with the film. However, no amount of flowery language compensates for Bunraku's otherwise lack of depth.

If it weren't for its cast Bunraku could have been a whole lot worse. And even then, characters have either been poorly cast or underused. Josh Hartnett just looks too young to pull off gruff, world-weary cowboy drifter while Japanese popstar Gackt is coated in so much eyeliner that he appears too feminine to be a believable formidable bushido warrior. Woody Harrelson, who ordinarily brings so much to anything he's in, skulks in the background, never doing anything more than act as a plot device where necessary (takes our heroes here, tells them to go there). Ron Perlman, normally just as effective as Harrelson in providing films with character and personality, is equally underused. Instead he is saved for the final act, only to have a midlife crisis. Kevin McKidd is probably the best thing about Bunraku, evidently enjoying his role as Killer #2, a vicious stone-cold assassin who looks like something of a cross between John Lennon and a Droog from A Clockwork Orange. Yet again however he falls foul to that Hollywood convention of your typical British villain.

Of course, the ban on firearms has merely caused man to revert back to more primitive methods of hacking and maiming each other. As such, martial arts and swordplay are the order of the day. Indeed, for all its artistic and character blandness, Bunraku should really succeed in its action sequences. After all, this is supposed to be a showcase of nifty combat techniques and astonishing stunts. While there are certainly elements of coolness in places, overall everything just feel shoddily edited together. Bunraku is consequently a jerky experience. The action is hectic and the way in which it is pieced together makes everything go by in a blur to the point where you'll blink and wonder what just happened. After a while what should be the film's bread and butter only becomes tiresome.

While Bunraku's basic gruel is admittedly somewhat more nourishing than Sucker Punch, it is still bland, instantly forgettable and not half as eloquent and arty as it likes to think it is. There are some nice touches, such as the use of comic book balloons acting as subtitles for the Japanese parts, but ultimately it just seems gimmicky without a whole load of substance. Its pretentious philosophical musings scarcely compensate and the result is a jumbled world of borrowed ideas and candy colours. Bunraku is like getting an XBox 360 for christmas, only to open the packaging and find that there's no console inside.