Movies about real people who lived lives like you’d see in a movie aren’t often great movies, which Rush isn’t. It is – however – a well executed albeit conventional biopic, of the sporting variety.
Superstar powered by Chris Hemsworth as racing superstar James Hunt, it never reaches RUSH territory. Faint praise perhaps, but only against the sky-high expectations accompanying Ron Howard’s big movie.
Rush is a damn good movie about a handsome Formula 1 champion starring the exceptionally handsome Chris Hemsworth. Plus it brings to life the highest levels of F1, meaning car-guys gotta see it.
James Hunt was a libertine superstar who courted death until death found him at the young age of 45. Rush ends in ‘77 with Hunt enjoying his status as 1976 F1 World Champion. He died 17 years later of a heart attack, absurdly young were it not for him smoking since the age of 8 and being a heavy drinker since, well, early. Then as a global superstar he became a primary participant in the cocaine age that was the Seventies. Caught up with him? Whooda’ thunk it.
Formula 1 is tough territory, with Rush a welcome and worthy entry into the pantheon of Grand Prix movies. But, Senna remains the champ, its well done cinéma vérité topping Rush’s gauzy hero worship.
Row 4 at Santana Row
Chris Hemsworth as James Hunt is as central-casting as it gets – Heman Hemsworth as Hotfucking Hunt. Notwithstanding that Thor often comes to mind, the überhunk from Down Under can act, which seems unfair. Playing a guy who had sex with 5,000 women, his animal magnetism is up to the challenge.1
Daniel Brühl’s Niki Lauda is teutonically excellent – ratlike and coiled, agile and intelligent.
Olivia Wilde dazzles as Suzy Miller, top model and wife to James Hunt and Richard Burton. Not at the same time, in sequence for a million pounds. Olivia the Blonde is a gorgeous sight to behold, but she’s most beautifully Wilde in her natural brunette, says this man.
Alexandra Maria Lara plays Niki Lauda’s wife Marlene, a sexy woman turned on by her future husband’s way with a stick shift. Their hitchhiking scene – where the Italian guys who pick them up are all about Niki and not interested in her at all – gives the movie a heart otherwise lacking.
Everyone else are supporters.
1 One example of Hunt’s world-class womanizing: He apparently stationed himself at the Tokyo Hilton checkin desk when dozens of British Air stewardesses got dropped off. Aided by his World Motorcycle Champion wingman, they’d invite the girls up to their suite for a jetset party. Yes, they’d do ‘em all, though that’s not in the movie. Sadly.
Ron Howard and Peter Morgan are heavyweights who deliver the goods in fine fashion, bringing to screen an insular yet globally visible world populated by asshole overachievers. Howard’s a nice guy however. Morgan may be also. Perhaps they can’t relate to Hunt & Lauda, each a world-class asshole.
Howard’s film always feels like a moving diorama, not like life. Granted that this is awfully subjective, but notwithstanding lots of fumes and burning rubber, it never seems like you can almost smell it. OK that’s an absurdly high standard, though it’s one that Senna achieved, and it was a documentary.
How are these for credits?
Highest on Sex, lowest on Violence, overall Rush presents a sordid tale, averaging out to 2.8 on the combined Edginess meter. Just because the Violence comes in lowest doesn’t mean that viewing Niki Lauda getting roasted inside a burning F1 car is easy to watch, nor is his harsh recovery.
Liberties were taken in bringing Hunt & Lauda’s titanic tale to the silver screen. The result is plenty truthy however.
Finally, to Hunt’s Wilt-class womanizing. A Daily Mail story in 2010 reports on How Formula One womaniser James Hunt slept with 33 BA stewardesses before the race that made him world champ. Now that’s living on the edge.