Drive unfolds like a beautiful dream. It's a self-reflexive action film that never beats us over the head with its own reflexivity. It would rather take its time to lull us into its narrative, to subdue us with its trance inducing style, than to insult our intelligence with any cheap tricks. It's as though the entire film takes place in perpetual, rhythmic slow motion, whereas the contemporary use of slow motion seems to be showing things more forcibly. I could see another director taking this plot and interpreting it as a high-octane thrill ride (or any other terribly cliched description), but with Drive, the fuel's been used up, and it's operating on auxiliary.
The film's protagonist (simply named, the driver) seems like an alien in the reality he inhabits. He is the film's hero, I guess, but I'd be hard-pressed to describe him in that fashion. It's as though the Driver has been displaced from an actual action film, and placed within this one - a world where stomping a man's head in isn't framed as anything heroic. I always wondered how John McClane could stab a man in the eye, yet walk away relatively unaffected - or how spouting one-liners after executing your wife isn't seen as sociopathic (although I would never make an argument against action movie puns). In most movies, it's all fun and games. In Drive, it's pretty fucking crazy.
Watching this film again (taking these stills constituted my third viewing of it) has really revealed for me its connection between style and narrative. I'll probably be a tad more talkative than usual in this post (but you can always forgo my commentary and view the images in slideshow).
