In this feature, our writers look closely at one sequence, scene, or shot from a recent movie, suggesting how it might be representative of the film as a whole, and why it is so powerful. It is intended for readers who have already viewed the film in question; spoilers are plentiful.
By Alexeem Boyle
The breathtaking, viciously explosive elevator scene in Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive is the first that comes to mind when I brainstorm recent high-impact moments that encapsulate the soul of a film. What I find so remarkable about this scene is the way it distils the rich romance, stunning but lean visual style, and pregnant violence of Drive as it simultaneously records the expressive and definitive moment of no return for the Driver (Ryan Gosling).
The scene occurs after the robbery gone wrong - in which Standard (Oscar Isaac) is killed - and the lives of the Driver, Irene (Carey Mulligan) and Benicio (Kaden Leos) are now threatened. As the elevator doors slide open and a suspiciously muscled man is revealed, the Driver is appealing to Irene to take the money and leave town with him (“I could protect you”). By the time they have reached the parking garage, their relationship, and what the Driver is capable of - in the eyes of Irene and the audience - has shifted radically.
A stoic martyr-protector type more often encountered in Westerns, the Driver is doomed from the moment he forms a connection with Irene and Benicio; the dirty entanglements that accompany Standard’s return home throb with impending tragedy. Even more condemning, however, are the heavy, meaningful silences that fill the spaces in the claustrophobic hallways of Irene’s apartment building and Shannon’s (Bryan Cranston) cramped garage.
Prior to his gruesome murder of the would-be assassin, the Driver’s decision to utilise his skills behind the wheel to assist Standard is easily justified; although he always remains something of a mystery, the Driver obviously enjoys the company and innocence of Irene and Benicio, is hardworking and loyal to Shannon, and – despite dabbling in petty crime - remains largely impervious to venality.
Suddenly, though, inside this gilded, plunging box, worlds threaten to smash together as the woman he seeks to protect is standing inches from the assassin. A slow kiss goodbye is the Driver’s resigned acceptance of the collision of these worlds. He then unleashes a brutal display of violence.
The camera stays trained on the Driver’s back, his movements and muscles causing the scorpion splayed across his jacket to ripple and animate as he lashes out again and again, reducing the man’s skull to a bloody pulp. Turning to Irene, who has backed out of the now open elevator, the Driver appears morphed – back hunched, sweaty and panting. So caught up in playing the protector to Irene and Benicio — in a mutated mythology that necessitates the slaying of mobsters Bernie Rose (Albert Brooks) and Nino (Ron Perlman) — he fails to realise that he is himself a dangerous force they need shielding from.
Looking at Irene’s expression, he seems to understand that he’s well and truly stung the frog, and that he’s already drowning in the blood of the men he seeks. There is to be no return to the world of before; allowing Irene to be tainted after a courtship resplendent with joyrides, a hidden oasis in the L.A. river system, children’s cartoons and flirting, there is no possibility of them running away together.
Their delayed kiss becomes a beautiful pit stop within a heinous expression of rage; the golden light thickens and glows, illuminating Irene as headiness — and the Driver — descends. The hovering assassin is momentarily forgotten (with the moment gloriously extended in syrupy slow-motion) before the violence bursts forth. The beats and rhythms in this scene — the long, measured inhale before the explosive spewing of blood, bone and motor oil — are perfectly attuned to Drive’s macro-structure.
The fragile bubble the Driver and Irene create — its spontaneous, temporary nature and inappropriate context — taps into the surface pleasures Drive revels in. There’s a garishness and emptiness to their kiss (as though it’s a desperate attempt at something before the inevitable) that reflects the surprisingly satisfying emptiness belying the polished, addictive slickness of the film, such as the pop music that inspires Cliff Martinez’s 80s-infused synth score.
Like the experience of watching Drive, this elevator encounter is seductive, pulsing and wonderfully dangerous in the moment. But the lightness and romance are heightened because of their contrast to the violence that inevitably follows, in a way that is also representative of the film as a whole; in this scene, bones crunch, fabric is yanked, breathing escalates, and Irene is horrified, and in the larger plot, sweet flirtation gives way to bloodshed and the spread of terror from the Driver to Blanche (Christina Hendricks), Shannon, Nino and Bernie.
Drive invites us to languish in its detached boldness, to be drawn into the vacant but propulsive beauty, and this insulated, literally suspended scene proves a scintillating and infecting part of Drive’s addictive, hyperactive beating.
