Skip to main content

That calls for a nice cup of tea.

Le Mans '66
aka Ford v Ferrari
(2019)

(SPOILERS) I didn’t have any great expectations for this one, partly because motor-related movies tend to be merely serviceable, by dint of marrying the grinding metal to elementary melodrama (to frequent audience apathy). Partly because James Mangold has never truly risen above the status of a competent journeyman. Yes, I know he gets all those raves for Logan, but Wolverine’s last round struck me as both overly derivative and in need of a couple more rewrites. Or maybe a couple less. Le Mans '66 might be his most satisfying movie, however, which isn’t to say it’s some kind of automotive miracle, but it successfully flourishes the biographical movie card in never less than immersive, kinetic fashion – even when it’s all talk – and at times even musters a veneer of the visually poetic, of the sort that brings to mind the best of Michael Mann (who gets a producer credit, and had been scheduled to direct a version of the film, inspired by AJ Baime’s Go Like Hell: Ford, Ferrari and Their Battle for Speed and Glory at Le Mans, as far back as 2011. Prior to that Brad Pitt had been involved, and after, Joseph Kosinski was attached for a spell).

Mangold and writers Jez and John-Henry Butterworth and Jason Keller have fashioned an irresistible underdog story, even though, at face value, that underdog is the behemoth of the Ford motor company going up against the not so mighty Ferrari. But this is an adventure couched in technical skill and masterful driving – and the idiosyncrasy that goes with it – and in practice is much more focussed on the internal ructions and struggles for power that beset Carrol Shelby’s (Matt Damon) attempts to bring a Ford car to Le Mans, and win, than it is on the two competing car manufacturers.

That might have been a flaw, but for the most part, you don’t feel it; the Italians are the bad guys at a distance, provisioned with no personalities within their Ferrari team, and limiting Remo Girone’s mastermind Enzo Ferrari to one, admittedly very memorable, speech in which he verbally savages Henry Ford II - "He said you're not Henry Ford. You're Henry Ford II" – and snubs the Ferrari buyout offer (which provides the motivation to best Ferrari at his own game, although Fiat’s purchase of the company didn’t actually happen until 1968). Instead, the quest and uphill struggle is everything, and all the more enthralling if, as in my case, you go in unfamiliar with the details of the story and the film’s inevitable deviations from straight-and-narrow facts (of course, this is intrinsic to any movie adaptation, so it’s somewhat disingenuous to feign disappointment or disenchantment when they do the expected).

Yes, advance warning to the non-motorhead might sometimes have been helpful, such as the nature of Le Mans as a relay race (don’t look at me like that), an aspect that instantly instilled a hankering for more than three lines from Ken Miles’ (Christian Bale) co-driver. But such are the economies of a still two-and-a-half-hour film; made as a Netflix series, we could doubtless have indulged the interactions of the all three Ford cars and drivers, and encountered choice exchanges with the competing teams. Le Mans '66 hones in on the essentials, delivering them expertly for the most part.

There is one glaring issue, however. Shorn of depicting Ferrari as the villains, one “has” to be manufactured, and duly surfaces in the form of Josh Lucas, who might have stepped straight off the set of Hulk, transposing exactly the same character to Leo Bebbe; he has all the subtlety of a moustache-twirling B-movie Machiavelli. So set on sabotaging Ken Miles’ prospects is Bebbe – on the grounds Ken doesn’t fit and isn’t a team player, an element that appears to have been grossly exaggerated at best – that he does everything but sprinkle tacks on the track and knife his tyres. The real Bebbe may have engaged in arguments over micromanagement (actually with Shelby’s predecessor), and it appears he did object to Miles’ risk taking, but such aspects are inflated into a cartoon figure who does a disservice to and slightly undermines the strong work almost everywhere else. Le Mans '66 is a relatively mature picture, except when Lucas is grinning maliciously. One can accept the need to make Shelby and Miles the creatives bucking the system as a fuel to the narrative (whereas they were really just two among the many working to a united goal), but there are limits.

Jon Bernthal contrastingly gets to play the likeable suit, Ford VP Lee Iacocca, and it’s nice to see him notplaying a psycho. Tracy Letts makes for a commandingly irascible Henry Ford II, abrasive and cocooned in his ivory tower, but relatively reasonable when cornered – until he then recants. One memorable scene finds Shelby taking Ford II for a spin in the Ford GT40, after which he readily, shakily agrees to Miles as the driver.

Damon and Bale are both on hugely winning form, and have genuine chemistry (that said, Matt always seems to get on with everyone). Damon makes it all look easy as the former Le Mans champ now popping heart pills and navigating the treacherous boardrooms and temperamental pits. Bale, donning a Brummie brogue, manages to buck the legend that he just isn’t likeable and isn’t much of anything when he isn’t concealed behind a mask or torturing himself with weight loss or gain. Miles is the instinctive, unguarded heart of the picture, even though Shelby provides the reflective sheen (and the poetic contemplation over soaring music as we hurtle round a sunset track), and his attitude and honesty ensure he stands out from the subterfuge and dirty tricks.

A significant slice of Miles’ domestic life is also depicted (Shelby appears to have none), with both Catriona Balfe and Noah Jupe turning in immensely likeable performances as his son and daughter. Yes, the scene where Mollie Miles takes Ken on a breakneck drive in order to make him fess up to his employment prospects is a little on the excessively embellished side, but Bale and Balfe make it work. Kids in fare like this can easily let the side down, but there’s nothing winsome about Peter Miles, and the foreshadowing scene in which team engineer Phil Remington (Ray McKinnon, so effective as the preacher in Deadwood) delicately explains the reasons for Ken surviving a car wreck turned inferno, is one of the most affecting in the picture.

I figure a picture must be doing something right if I, as a resolute non-driver, am engaged not just by the racing but also the technicalities of the development. Nevertheless, it’s on the track that the picture truly comes into its own, and while there’s surely some CG augmentation during the race scenes, this an immediacy and tangibility absent from the also decent relatively recent Rush. Mangold charts the progress of the project with a clear vision of the end goal, from the disappointment of Miles being cast aside from Le Mans ’65, after going for broke in developing a car in ninety days, to his win at Daytona and then the grand finale on a benighted course. The facts of the three Ford cars crossing the finish line together are here squarely down Bebbe’s nefariousness, but if Miles was undoubtedly submitting to his instructions, the reality wasn’t nearly as sinister since the real Shelby, to his regret, was on board with the idea. Either way, it’s a cruel rebuke to Miles’ magnanimous act that he can only claim the silver, and a testament to his character that he shrugs it off.

It’s been speculated that Le Mans '66 stands a chance of a Best Picture Oscar nod, and with up to ten nominees, that seems quite feasible, although it generally seems to be a picture that has been well, rather than ecstatically, received. If it does get a nomination, it’s surely destined to go down as solid filler to make up numbers, which rather under-recognises its pedigree. The biopic genre rarely displays more than competency, but Le Mans '66 furnishes it with some genuine flair.


Agree? Disagree? Mildly or vehemently? Let me know in the comments below.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

You guys sure like watermelon.

The Irishman aka I Heard You Paint Houses (2019)
(SPOILERS) Perhaps, if Martin Scorsese hadn’t been so opposed to the idea of Marvel movies constituting cinema, The Irishman would have been a better film. It’s a decent film, assuredly. A respectable film, definitely. But it’s very far from being classic. And a significant part of that is down to the usually assured director fumbling the execution. Or rather, the realisation. I don’t know what kind of crazy pills the ranks of revered critics have been taking so as to recite as one the mantra that you quickly get used to the de-aging effects so intrinsic to its telling – as Empire magazine put it, “you soon… fuggadaboutit” – but you don’t. There was no point during The Irishman that I was other than entirely, regrettably conscious that a 75-year-old man was playing the title character. Except when he was playing a 75-year-old man.

I just hope my death makes more cents than my life.

Joker (2019)
(SPOILERS) So the murder sprees didn’t happen, and a thousand puff pieces desperate to fan the flames of such events and then told-ya-so have fallen flat on their faces. The biggest takeaway from Joker is not that the movie is an event, when once that seemed plausible but not a given, but that any mainstream press perspective on the picture appears unable to divorce its quality from its alleged or actual politics. Joker may be zeitgeisty, but isn’t another Taxi Driver in terms of cultural import, in the sense that Taxi Driver didn’t have a Taxi Driver in mind when Paul Schrader wrote it. It is, if you like, faux-incendiary, and can only ever play out on that level. It might be more accurately described as a grubbier, grimier (but still polished and glossy) The Talented Ripley, the tale of developing psychopathy, only tailored for a cinemagoing audience with few options left outside of comic book fare.

So you want me to be half-monk, half-hitman.

Casino Royale (2006)
(SPOILERS) Despite the doubts and trepidation from devotees (too blonde, uncouth etc.) that greeted Daniel Craig’s casting as Bond, and the highly cynical and low-inspiration route taken by Eon in looking to Jason Bourne's example to reboot a series that had reached a nadir with Die Another Day, Casino Royale ends up getting an enormous amount right. If anything, its failure is that it doesn’t push far enough, so successful is it in disarming itself of the overblown set pieces and perfunctory plotting that characterise the series (even at its best), elements that would resurge with unabated gusto in subsequent Craig excursions.

For the majority of its first two hours, Casino Royale is top-flight entertainment, with returning director Martin Campbell managing to exceed his excellent work reformatting Bond for the ‘90s. That the weakest sequence (still good, mind) prior to the finale is a traditional “big” (but not too big) action set piece involving an attempt to…

Poor Easy Breezy.

Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood (2019)
(SPOILERS) My initial reaction to Once Upon a Time… in Hollywood was mild disbelief that Tarantino managed to hoodwink studios into coming begging to make it, so wilfully perverse is it in disregarding any standard expectations of narrative or plotting. Then I remembered that studios, or studios that aren’t Disney, are desperate for product, and more especially, product that might guarantee them a hit. Quentin’s latest appears to be that, but whether it’s a sufficient one to justify the expense of his absurd vanity project remains to be seen.

You're skipping Christmas! Isn't that against the law?

Christmas with the Kranks (2004)
Ex-coke dealer Tim Allen’s underwhelming box office career is, like Vince Vaughn’s, regularly in need of a boost from an indiscriminate public willing to see any old turkey posing as a prize Christmas comedy.  He made three Santa Clauses, and here is joined by Jamie Lee Curtis as a couple planning to forgo the usual neighbourhood festivities for a cruise.

It's their place, Mac. They have a right to make of it what they can. Besides, you can't eat scenery!

Local Hero (1983)
(SPOILERS) With the space of thirty-five years, Bill Forsyth’s gentle eco-parable feels more seductive than ever. Whimsical is a word often applied to Local Hero, but one shouldn’t mistake that description for its being soft in the head, excessively sentimental or nostalgic. Tonally, in terms of painting a Scottish idyll where the locals are no slouches in the face of more cultured foreigners, the film hearkens to both Powell and Pressburger (I Know Where I’m Going!) and Ealing (Whisky Galore!), but it is very much its own beast.

We’ll bring it out on March 25 and we’ll call it… Christmas II!

Santa Claus: The Movie (1985)
(SPOILERS) Alexander Salkind (alongside son Ilya) inhabited not dissimilar territory to the more prolific Dino De Laurentis, in that his idea of manufacturing a huge blockbuster appeared to be throwing money at it while being stingy with, or failing to appreciate, talent where it counted. Failing to understand the essential ingredients for a quality movie, basically, something various Hollywood moguls of the ‘80s would inherit. Santa Claus: The Movie arrived in the wake of his previously colon-ed big hit, Superman: The Movie, the producer apparently operating under the delusion that flying effects and :The Movie in the title would induce audiences to part with their cash, as if they awarded Saint Nick a must-see superhero mantle. The only surprise was that his final cinematic effort, Christopher Columbus: The Discovery, wasn’t similarly sold, but maybe he’d learned his lesson by then. Or maybe not, given the behind-camera talent he failed to secure.

He tasks me. He tasks me, and I shall have him.

Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan
(1982)
(SPOILERS) I don’t love Star Trek, but I do love Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan. That probably isn’t just me, but a common refrain of many a non-devotee of the series. Although, it used to apply to The Voyage Home (the funny one, with the whales, the Star Trek even the target audience for Three Men and a Baby could enjoy). Unfortunately, its high regard has also become the desperate, self-destructive, song-and-verse, be-all-and-end-all of the overlords of the franchise itself, in whichever iteration, it seems. This is understandable to an extent, as Khan is that rare movie sequel made to transcendent effect on almost every level, and one that stands the test of time every bit as well (better, even) as when it was first unveiled.

She was addicted to Tums for a while.

Marriage Story (2019)
(SPOILERS) I don’t tend to fall heavily for Noah Baumbach fare. He’s undoubtedly a distinctive voice – even if his collaborations with Wes Anderson are the least of that director’s efforts – but his devotion to an exclusive, rarefied New York bubble becomes ever more off-putting with each new project. And ever more identifiable as being a lesser chronicler of the city’s privileged quirks than his now disinherited forbear Woody Allen, who at his peak mastered a balancing act between the insightful, hilarious and self-effacing. Marriage Story finds Baumbach going yet again where Woody went before, this time brushing up against the director’s Ingmar Bergman fixation.

On a long enough timeline, the survival of everyone drops to zero.

Fight Club (1999)
(SPOILERS) Still David Fincher’s peak picture, mostly by dint of Fight Club being the only one you can point to and convincingly argue that that the source material is up there with his visual and technical versatility. If Seven is a satisfying little serial-killer-with-a-twist story vastly improved by his involvement (just imagine it directed by Joel Schumacher… or watch 8mm), Fight Club invites him to utilise every trick in the book to tell the story of not-Tyler Durden, whom we encounter at a very peculiar time in his life.