We enjoyed Drive as a modular collection of beautifully shot set pieces that could have been reordered in many a way. Its story didn’t matter, and neither did its characters (except for Brian Cranston, for sure).
Contrary to most of our friends, we didn’t enjoy the use of music in the film. Telling us what to feel at particular moments through the songs’ lyrics wasn’t too subtle. Of course, this doesn’t apply to Chromatics’ Tick of The Clock, which made us lay back in a stylishly deluded Michael Mann fever, or to Cliff Martinez’ stuff.
We also learned that it is physically possible to burst someone’s skull if you push hard enough, even if you aren’t a Locust warlord. Good going Ryan.
Anyway, here you have a couple of extra scenes that were deleted from that extended version of Drive that circulates through the lost highways of our imagination, in the spirit of modularity that we referred to at the beginning.
Firstly, the German Army outtake, which would have seen Ryan take an unexpected detour during one of his nocturnal motoric escapades, into the back lot of a meat processing warehouse, to rummage methodically through containers full of offal with that wholesome, somewhat absent smile of his, looking for an external manifestation (or exit) from that strange place within his head where all the violence comes from.
The sounds of German Army are legion, here they camouflage themselves in a Carpenterian fog, through which we squint at geometrical silhouettes sliding in a tectonic dance, the tonality is blue, the mood even elegant, if it wasn’t for that pervasive whiff of putrefaction.
Secondly, Paco Sala’s contribution, which sketches with eternally liquid indigo an aural icon, dare-we-say totem, for Ryan’s otherwise materially mediated existence (the car and its engine, the scorpion jacket, the mask), an emotion that fluctuates within and beyond the fixed spatial parameters of that which can be designed, and thus, commoditised.
Perhaps a revenant of soft & tender curves floating ahead of his windshield, tantalising close yet unreachable, regardless of speed and mileage.
Paco Sala’s ‘Ro-me-ro’ induces abstract truths from the personal epic of the people of the city, and re-renders them into bass, pitch, riddim and ululation, like Balinese shadows projected at the back of the discotheque by a light that cannot be found.