Despite its title and premise, Drive is not a film about speed and Bullit-like car chases. Rather, Nicolas Winding Refn’s film is about fragmented identity. The primary example of this is the unnamed Driver (Ryan Gosling), whose occupation overtakes any given name. Throughout the film, we learn little about him, other than he “can do anything in a car.” His skill is overt, but his various jobs fail to tether him to one specific role. He is a mechanic. He is a stunt driver in Hollywood films (for which he wears a rubber mask), and he’s a getaway driver for seedy criminals, offering them “five minutes,” but if “anything happens on either side” of those minutes, he’s out of the picture and they’re left to fend for themselves.
Just hearing about his character, one might assume that he’s a brooding individual with numerous issues fighting to break free through various montage interludes, but this isn’t the case. Yes, he’s troubled, and this is apparent in certain scenes when his stoic demeanor is momentarily fractured, exposing a violent tirade that results in a crushed skull and bloodied boots, but there are no apparent causes for this. When the elevator door opens, Irene (Carey Mulligan) languidly backs out in shock, and Driver’s face reverts to an eerie calm. There are no subsequent conversations about his past, his father, his mother, his former lover, or whether he has any of the above. And, for this, I am grateful. In tandem, Refn emphasizes Driver’s ambiguity through his shots. Often, Gosling is framed as a piece of furniture in the scene. As Irene relays her tale of woe (one that is done subtly to parallel a fractured identity – that of a strong mom and a hurt wife) Driver’s image is blurry and trapped in a mirror. Within the frame, we can hardly see his face, but we see that he is trapped and distorted. What he wants to say and do is contained, so he just exists.
This similar feeling is evoked as we mostly see the back of his head, and when see his face, he hardly speaks. His eyes move from conversation to conversation. Occasionally a word sneaks into the air, but his monosyllabic delivery conceals much more than it reveals.
Even though Driver is the main protagonist, he is not the only one who is troubled and disjointed. Each character has spread his or her self to thin. Irene stays strong for her son and tries to remain a faithful wife. At the same time, there is an inclination for her to run from her imprisoned husband and the gang in which he is caught. There is no reference to any crags or rifts in their relationship prior to his incarceration, but we find that she’s just as trapped in his web as he is. There’s also a part of her that wants to be with Driver, this symbol of protection. There are no throes of passion or crescendos of pleasure, but she nervously reaches for his hand and finds a bit of comfort in his subtle touch. Throughout, she’s torn, but not in a “I need to chat with my best friend over coffee” way.
Then there’s Bernie (Albert Brooks), a mob boss more akin to a charismatic politician. Throughout, he seems reluctant to be what he is, but acknowledges that it is his role. He doesn’t seem to want to kill the people he kills (for the most part), but chalks it up as a matter of circumstance to keep himself from being killed. This self-preservation often conflicts with a rather genuine-sounding belief that he has friends. He has a soft spot for Shannon (Bryan Cranston), a man who got caught up with the wrong people and suffered a shattered pelvis, and he seems to have a sincere like for Driver, but friendship and business can’t co-exist. Bernie himself is an odd character – or at least one that defies typical mob tropes. The conflict in Drive derives from Driver wanting to help Irene’s husband, Standard (Oscar Isaac) when he gets released from prison. Upon his release, he still owes money. If he pulls off one last heist, he, Irene, and his son will be left alone, so Driver agrees to be the getaway man for the sake of the mother and son. However, this heist is not arranged by Bernie. In fact, Bernie seems to have no knowledge of the incident whatsoever. Instead, it’s planned by Nino (Ron Perlman), a man also struggling with being called a “kike” and having his cheeks pinched when he’s “fifty-nine” years old as opposed to getting the respect he feels is due.
As heists do, this one goes awry and Driver is left holding the bag, literally. He doesn’t want the money and has no plans to keep it, but giving it back to the “east side mob” is not necessarily feasible without incriminating Bernie. Thus, Bernie becomes the reluctant murderer, one who must execute quickly and comfortingly. One scene in particular finds him slitting a man’s veins from along his forearm from elbow to wrist – as he firmly shakes his hand in friendly embrace, lulling him to death with the calming “it’s over; there’s nothing you can do.” As the body melts to the ground, Bernie backs away, his eyes heavy, his shoulders world-weary as he meticulously cleans his weapon.
In the end, it seems that Drive is the perfect title and the perfect verb for this film. The car itself is a shell for its driver, the perfect decoy, the perfect identity. Driver’s skill allows the action to commence, but his identity is void: “no one will be looking at” him. Everyone will have their eyes on the Impala or the Mustang. The action itself is seen as part of the car, not an account of the driver – or, in this case, Driver. Even his agency is elided and handed over to a bit of machinery. There’s also something to be said for the compartmentalization associated with vehicles. Each vehicle offers mobility but also separation. It creates a society in which we are afraid to merge, even amongst the millions travelling on and off of ramps that journey is the same direction. Within, Driver is isolated, an individual, and given quiet agency. Without, the car is just another sight on the freeway.
