Ron Howard’s Formula One drama is tense, involving and easy to recommend, despite some over-explaining between races. Chris Hemsworth and Daniel Brühl make the rivalry matter even when Peter Morgan’s script makes the men too simple.
Ron Howard approaches Rush as a story about two men who cannot agree on how to do the same job. That is a useful way into Formula One for anyone whose interest in the sport ends at the noise. James Hunt enjoys himself; Niki Lauda attends to the details, and Peter Morgan’s screenplay makes sure we notice the difference. The result is a forceful, accessible sports drama, though we could have managed with fewer explanations of what each man represents.
Chris Hemsworth gives Hunt the easy confidence of someone accustomed to being forgiven, and understands how quickly charm can become wearing. There is pleasure in the performance, but he leaves enough vanity visible to stop Hunt becoming merely good company. Daniel Brühl has the less immediately inviting part and makes Lauda’s meticulousness engrossing. We can see the thought behind his awkwardness: he considers the racing worth taking seriously, regardless of whether anyone enjoys his company.
Anthony Dod Mantle’s photography makes the racing feel close and physically unpleasant, which is a considerable compliment here. The cockpit views restrict our sense of space, and the grainy images keep the period recreation from looking freshly polished. We flinched at the engine noise in those close quarters. The sound is so aggressive, and the camera so near the drivers, that the speed feels dangerous before the script needs to tell us it is. Editors Mike Hill and Daniel P. Hanley keep the competition legible amid that pressure.
Mark Digby’s production design gives the 1970s racing world enough glamour to explain its appeal, without making the danger seem remote. We believe that these men would want to spend their lives here. Hans Zimmer’s score adds useful urgency, although it can be over-insistent when the cars and the actors are already doing enough. Howard occasionally presses harder than the scene requires.
Morgan is less convincing when he keeps spelling out the contrast between the drivers. Hunt’s pleasure-seeking and Lauda’s exactness are clear early on; repeating them does not tell us much more about either man. Olivia Wilde, as Suzy Miller, and Alexandra Maria Lara, as Marlene Lauda, have too little room to complicate this largely male account of ambition. Their characters help us understand the drivers, but deserve more attention of their own. The off-track passages can consequently feel hurried even while the film is explaining itself.
Sports dramas often insist that a contest must teach somebody how to live, and Rush is not free of that habit. What keeps it involving is the sense that both these men have found work they cannot easily separate from the rest of their lives. Howard makes the attraction of that work understandable even when it looks alarming. At 123 minutes, the film asks for no specialist knowledge of Formula One. Come for the racing, and give Brühl the same attention when the engines stop.
