The Expressiveness of Ryan Gosling's Knuckles: DRIVE

Yes, DRIVE is as good as you've been hearing it is.

In its finest moments, it evokes the sublime perfection of films like HEAT or RESERVOIR DOGS or THE GODFATHER, and I don't think those comparisons are (too) hyperbolic. There's a mastery of filmmaking on display here that is genuinely thrilling to watch. Or perhaps I should say hear.

Because while the photography of DRIVE is undeniably gorgeous, in turns washed out by an uncaring L.A. sun and then plunged into fluorescent-tinged darkness, it's the film's soundtrack that is particularly noteworthy to me. When I say soundtrack, I don't just mean the film's score and use of pop music, although those are incredible, but rather the entire auditory experience of DRIVE.

This is a patient movie, one that takes time to express its point and revels in silence. Gosling's performance is made up of long stares and slow burns, and every word he speaks seems to have more emphasis because of it. His knuckles do more emoting in this film than Ashton Kutcher has done in his entire cinematic career.

There are at least four shots where Gosling's knuckles express emotions like anger, tension, and fear, while his face betrays none of those things. It's a neat trick of contextual meaning that a sound like scrunching leather driving gloves can express all of these things, and it's a small example of DRIVE's audio mastery.

I've seen DRIVE twice in the five days it's been out for, and I'll undoubtedly catch it at least once more before it leaves theatres. You should, too.

The End Of My First Date With COLOMBIANA

COLOMBIANA, I've been watching you for two hours now, and let's get real: who the hell do you think you are?

Let me back up for a second. I don't think you're a terrible movie, over all. You've got a sort of charming, old-school approach to action scenes, with a few notable set pieces worth seeing, and you've got a bona-fide hottie in Zoe Saldana prancing around all over the place, which makes you at least watchable for long sections where nothing appears to be happening.

But you don't end your movie with Johnny Cash's cover of "Hurt". You don't deserve it.

Now, to be honest, I don't know if any movie deserves to end with that song. It's a masterpiece, maybe the best cover of all time (music nerds can feel free to mock this uninformed statement, ideally with links). But coming after two hours of weak character scenes and half-baked Biggest Brother paranoid surveillance fantasies, ending with this song is like biting into a chocolate only to find it filled with liqueur. Or orange filling. Or that weird spongy toffee-that-isn't-toffee. You get the idea.

This sudden reversal of what I was expecting doesn't only leave me with a bad taste in my mouth; it makes me want to throw the whole thing out. I'm seeing you from a whole different perspective, like finding out you dated one of my old high school friends. You lured me in (and scored cheap points) with your overtly Tony Scott-influenced cinematography and Luc Besson's name, but you only aspire to those things. This movie is like a copy of a copy of a copy, with only the faintest lines of the original showing up: you're mostly negative space.

Also, your editing is some of the worst I've seen in a major motion picture for quite some time.

I think we're through. I guess I'll cover the bill.