Thursday, July 5, 2012
Letter from Pedestrianica.6
We here in Pedestrianica rarely offer our opinions on cinema, but one movie came down the
shit tube off-ramp recently that raised a lot of questions: What is up with Drive? The future of fossil fuels has looked bleak for decades. We know it's making you a lot of money, Corporate America, but look: that aura surrounding the automobile? It's fading fast. And leaving aside Drive's motorcentrism, it seems to have gone unnoticed that this is just another movie about a smug, brooding white dude trying and failing to act tough (bitch, we saw you at the Mormon talent show) as he woos a blandly wholesome and weakly written romantic lead, and forms a relationship with her son that reeks of Indiana Jones-style imperialism. When the love interest's husband comes home from prison, he's punished for failing to appreciate how well our hero has "taken care" of his wife. And when our hero beats up Christina Hendricks, a) it can only be described as extreme slut shaming, and b) it makes his already punchable face fifty times more so. How is this shit even remotely okay, let alone the best movie of the year? While we Pedestrianicans are used to hegemonic car glamor being shoveled at us by the oil lords of sovereign nations, our numbness lessens daily. The gap between what an absolute turd Drive is and the praise it's received is astounding. And (according to one Pedestrianican citizen) the only way to make it through this film is to re-imagine it as an extended Michael Scott fantasy sequence.