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Motorsport movies have a lousy track record, so it's not surprising that
Driven joins the ranks of previous race-car clunkers like
Grand Prix,
Le Mans,
Bobby Deerfield, and
Days of Thunder. To varying degrees, all of these films offer spectacular racing footage (especially
Le Mans), but what
is surprising is that
Driven was written by its star and coproducer Sylvester Stallone, who shows virtually no sign of the talent that created
Rocky over a quarter-century earlier. Under the tepid direction of Renny Harlin, this superficial speedfest fulfills its primary obligation--the racing sequences are adequately exciting, despite the Cuisinart editing and a glaring lack of kinetic continuity. But whenever this adrenaline-pumped drama gets off the track, well... let's just say it's a hybrid of
Top Gun and
Days of Thunder, but makes those Tom Cruise vehicles look masterful by comparison.
Stallone's a retired Grand Prix champion, called back into action by his disabled crew chief (Burt Reynolds) to boost the career of a hotshot driver (Kip Pardue, the pretty-boy from Remember the Titans) who's trailing a German ace (charismatic Til Schweiger) in the current 20-race season. The female contingent consists of a reporter (Stacy Edwards, too talented for this tripe) who's writing about "male domination in sports"; Stallone's embittered, remarried ex-wife (Gina Gershon, parodying her bitchy persona); and the requisite kewpie doll (Estella Warren) who comes between Boy Wonder and the reigning champ. It's airhead melodrama all the way, so you'd better enjoy the breakneck racing scenes--including a ludicrous prototype-racer joyride through downtown Chicago--or you'll blow a piston on your straightaway sprint to the bad-movie finish line. --Jeff Shannon
Bring earplugs. Renny Harlin and Sylvester Stallone, the team who gave us the vertical thrills of "Cliffhanger," try to go horizontal with a car-racing movie. It's not a bad popcorn flick as long as Sly and the gang stay in their cars, but when they emerge it gets ugly. -Michael Agger
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker
