J.R. and I went to see Drive last weekend, and it wasn't quite what I expected, since I expected it to be good. It's gotten fairly glowing reviews, arthouse action film, yada, yada, yada. Um, action? Not so much. And if it's "artistic" to crush a skull by stomping on it repeatedly, then, yeah, I guess this film is artistic. And I'm not one to shy away from cinematic gore; I haven't really met a Tarantino film I didn't like (though I still need to see Inglorious Basterds). This gore just didn't have any redeeming qualities for me.
In the beginning, I inwardly laughed at the cheesy '80s titles and the over-the-top synth music. I figured it was one of those slow build movies, and it would grow on me. Slow, yes; grow on me, not so much. I stayed through the whole thing, but by the end, all I wanted was a shower. Ryan Gosling has been a favorite of mine since I got over how fantastically creepy he was in Murder by Numbers, but even his chiseled beauty couldn't save this flick for me.