The central argument of this film is temporal: the rearview mirror shows a dangerous yet exciting era in the sport. And the future seems safer, but perhaps it makes for a predictable spectacle.
There’s a dated JBF undercurrent to the tone and structure of this film that clearly holds it back from shifting into a timeless gear. Its dedication to marketability and the obligation to qualify its “official” stamp are somewhat of a damper on the creative. Consequentially, it corners…
A film so blindly in service to its themes, it would rather compromise on building organic characters than tone down its satirical scope.
Despite that, it neither allows itself to explore any other thematic interpretation nor approach narrative possibilities beyond the typical mould of its genre.
The Achilles’ heel is the writing here, so tightly bound to its central statement that you can witness an A-list cast stumble with some of the woody dialogue.
Otherwise, it looks analog slick, feels SoHo chic, and drops needles on the right grooves. All this as it moves with a rhythm that’s sure of itself.
