Steve Antin

Dedee Pfeiffer

David Warner

Jefery Levy

Colin MacLeod

The Driver (David Warner) monologues and ruminates on life while taking his passenger to their different destinations.

Drive

Curious but rich indie drama

As Rod Stewart sagely observed, &quot;some guys have all the luck.&quot; Some indie movies have all the luck, too, and make a big splash either upon release or perhaps later in their life. &apos;Drive&apos; is not one of those movies. Filmmaker Jefery Levy has some notable credits in film and TV, as does star Steve Antin, and screen icon David Warner needs no introduction. Almost 40 years after it was made, however, I&apos;ve stumbled onto it only by pure chance. Ultimately there&apos;s an odd duality in the reality of this picture, because by the meager nature of the content it&apos;s not surprising that it never achieved wider recognition - yet there&apos;s also a certain novel, experimental quality that makes it exactly the type of film to become a critical darling and/or a cult favorite to be upheld as a paragon of inventiveness. With that said, by no means is it your average feature, and it won&apos;t be for everyone.

The structure of the picture is relatively simple, such that with some changes one could envision it adapted to the stage as effectively a two-man play. What we have is not even so much a story as a snapshot in time: one driver, one passenger - a car pool - the conversation they share, and the thoughts they inwardly voice. Warner&apos;s driver particularly, and to a lesser extent Antin&apos;s passenger, demonstrate much wisdom, and also the definite lack of it; bloviate about gender relations (with misogynist overtones), serophobia, identity, self-actualization, aging, and the status quo; express or ponder hatred of each other, or of themselves; and think ever of other matters while continuing to talk about everything and nothing. Cutaway shots to car parts, the surrounding metropolis, close-ups of facial expressions, archive footage, and more accentuate the smallness, pointlessness, and universality of the character&apos;s mindsets, talk, and commute. Meanwhile the title, its repetition in one form or another, and the interminable length of the journey spotlight the inescapable malaise, tedium, and emptiness of modern life even as it pushes us ever forward. The driver and the passenger are both discretely unlikable, but nonetheless their hollowness reflects a part of all of us, emphasized in the last third as the seating arrangements are visualized differently, and especially in the last moment we see Warner&apos;s face before the film ends.

All this is spliced together with deliberate camerawork that in its close angles on Warner and Antin make the experience feel ruthlessly personal and present, and sharp editing that consciously borders on &quot;Lord Privy Seal&quot; plainspokenness at some points and is brilliantly artful at others. Charles H. Bisharat&apos;s often blithely discordant music confers an unease upon the experience for both the characters and the viewers at the same time that Levy&apos;s direction seemingly aims to keep us both invested and uncomfortable. The joint writing of Levy and Colin MacLeod bears bitter yet cheeky ruefulness and cynicism as it presents a tableau so painfully honest and thoughtful as it brushes over wide topical areas. And, likewise, there&apos;s a dry genuineness of nuance and surprisingly wide range (surprising for the fact of the content, not the skill of the players) in the performances of Antin and Warner, and it&apos;s a subtle joy to watch them bring these acerbic characters to life. Though relegated to a much smaller supporting part, it&apos;s also worth noting Dedee Pfeiffer, whose more conventional and straightforward role is given to quiet earnestness, a foil to the relative bombast of her costars.

Does any of this make sense on paper? Does it sound like a film you&apos;d enjoy? Again, the crux of the matter: &apos;Drive&apos; is fairly obscure, and it could surely be appreciated only by a niche audience, but at the same time that&apos;s just what makes it stand out so much as an independent movie. I confess I&apos;m not entirely certain how to feel about it myself, as even among titles that tread a less well-worn path it&apos;s not the easiest to engage with. Ideas big and small, monumental and meaningless, swirl together in an inseparable homogenous slurry, and it&apos;s all but impossible to assess the whole part by part - it&apos;s all or nothing, love it or hate it. Well, I do like it, and I&apos;ll say this - I feel like I should like it more, save for that either there&apos;s some keystone I&apos;m just not grasping, or that the feature itself keeps locked away. Suffice to say that &apos;Drive&apos; is a unique, quixotic movie. If you&apos;re someone who appreciates the weird and wonderful, and all the variety cinema has to offer, this is made just for you. Turn up your speakers so you don&apos;t miss a word, and explore what &apos;Drive&apos; can mean for you.

As Rod Stewart sagely observed, "some guys have all the luck." Some indie movies have all the luck, too, and make a big splash either upon release or perhaps later in their life. 'Drive' is not one of those movies. Filmmaker Jefery Levy has some notable credits in film and TV, as does star Steve Antin, and screen icon David Warner needs no introduction. Almost 40 years after it was made, however, I've stumbled onto it only by pure chance. Ultimately there's an odd duality in the reality of this picture, because by the meager nature of the content it's not surprising that it never achieved wider recognition - yet there's also a certain novel, experimental quality that makes it exactly the type of film to become a critical darling and/or a cult favorite to be upheld as a paragon of inventiveness. With that said, by no means is it your average feature, and it won't be for everyone.

The structure of the picture is relatively simple, such that with some changes one could envision it adapted to the stage as effectively a two-man play. What we have is not even so much a story as a snapshot in time: one driver, one passenger - a car pool - the conversation they share, and the thoughts they inwardly voice. Warner's driver particularly, and to a lesser extent Antin's passenger, demonstrate much wisdom, and also the definite lack of it; bloviate about gender relations (with misogynist overtones), serophobia, identity, self-actualization, aging, and the status quo; express or ponder hatred of each other, or of themselves; and think ever of other matters while continuing to talk about everything and nothing. Cutaway shots to car parts, the surrounding metropolis, close-ups of facial expressions, archive footage, and more accentuate the smallness, pointlessness, and universality of the character's mindsets, talk, and commute. Meanwhile the title, its repetition in one form or another, and the interminable length of the journey spotlight the inescapable malaise, tedium, and emptiness of modern life even as it pushes us ever forward. The driver and the passenger are both discretely unlikable, but nonetheless their hollowness reflects a part of all of us, emphasized in the last third as the seating arrangements are visualized differently, and especially in the last moment we see Warner's face before the film ends.

All this is spliced together with deliberate camerawork that in its close angles on Warner and Antin make the experience feel ruthlessly personal and present, and sharp editing that consciously borders on "Lord Privy Seal" plainspokenness at some points and is brilliantly artful at others. Charles H. Bisharat's often blithely discordant music confers an unease upon the experience for both the characters and the viewers at the same time that Levy's direction seemingly aims to keep us both invested and uncomfortable. The joint writing of Levy and Colin MacLeod bears bitter yet cheeky ruefulness and cynicism as it presents a tableau so painfully honest and thoughtful as it brushes over wide topical areas. And, likewise, there's a dry genuineness of nuance and surprisingly wide range (surprising for the fact of the content, not the skill of the players) in the performances of Antin and Warner, and it's a subtle joy to watch them bring these acerbic characters to life. Though relegated to a much smaller supporting part, it's also worth noting Dedee Pfeiffer, whose more conventional and straightforward role is given to quiet earnestness, a foil to the relative bombast of her costars.

Does any of this make sense on paper? Does it sound like a film you'd enjoy? Again, the crux of the matter: 'Drive' is fairly obscure, and it could surely be appreciated only by a niche audience, but at the same time that's just what makes it stand out so much as an independent movie. I confess I'm not entirely certain how to feel about it myself, as even among titles that tread a less well-worn path it's not the easiest to engage with. Ideas big and small, monumental and meaningless, swirl together in an inseparable homogenous slurry, and it's all but impossible to assess the whole part by part - it's all or nothing, love it or hate it. Well, I do like it, and I'll say this - I feel like I should like it more, save for that either there's some keystone I'm just not grasping, or that the feature itself keeps locked away. Suffice to say that 'Drive' is a unique, quixotic movie. If you're someone who appreciates the weird and wonderful, and all the variety cinema has to offer, this is made just for you. Turn up your speakers so you don't miss a word, and explore what 'Drive' can mean for you.

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