No Rush

One of the more awkward occasions of my cinema-going life came in 2001, when me and a few mates were talked into seeing the newly-released Vin Diesel masterpiece The Fast & The Furious at Showcase Walsall. The individual who did the talking had, in no particular order: a) a car, b) an unhealthy fascination with speed, and c) a microscopic penis. (I hasten to add that I'm merely inferring assertion number three as a natural deduction from numbers one and two. I'm sure our breakneck drive back to Wednesbury following the movie would have been more traumatic if he'd actually flopped his fun-size phallus out, but not by much).

So, generally speaking, I tend to have as healthy a disregard for films which revolve around insecure blokes vrooming about in cock-extensions as I do for the type of knobsacks who enjoy watching them. But earlier this year, I found myself considerably harrowed by watching the excellent documentary Senna, which showed the consequences of this "need for speed" in stark reality, and it persuaded me to give a couple of hours to Rush, the blockbuster telling the story of Seventies Formula One stars James Hunt and Niki Lauda. Knowing precisely fuck all squared about these guys before hitting the play button, it was a brilliant journey through the egotism and self-destructive nature of motor racing, and Daniel Bruhl's turn as Lauda is particularly impressive.

Note to makers of The Fast & The Furious 237637: THIS is how to make a film about cars.