68 THENEWYORKER, NOVEMBER 18, 2019
THE CURRENT CINEMA
WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS
“Ford v Ferrari” and “Doctor Sleep.”
BY ANTHONY LANE
ABOVE: PHILIPPE PETIT-ROULET
will be dethroned. No pressure. To that
end, Ford brings in Carroll Shelby (Matt
Damon), who was a co-driver in the
Aston Martin that won Le Mans in
1959, and who will now attend to the
birth of a new vehicle, specifically de-
signed to be a Ferrari-whipper. And
Shelby, in turn, will bring in Ken Miles
(Christian Bale), who is swifter than
any other driver on the circuit and more
stubborn than is good for him. Think
of him as the world’s quickest mule.
“Ford v Ferrari” is directed by James
Mangold, and it may be his strongest
film. Since his début, “Heavy” (1995),
he’s been drawn toward abrasion—to
the talent, or the weakness, that people
have for rubbing against each other. Of
late, in his Marvel offerings, “The Wol-
verine” (2013) and “Logan” (2017), such
emotional roughness has coarsened into
raw violence, and I’m glad to say that,
in the new movie, balance is restored;
the rub goes on, primarily between
Shelby and Miles, and sparks keep fly-
ing, but there are moments of surpris-
ing quietude. When Miles is informed
that he won’t be driving at Le Mans in
1965, on the ground that, as one com-
pany executive puts it, he’s “not a Ford
man,” he doesn’t ignite. He nods, ac-
cepts the decision, and stays in Amer-
ica, tinkering with engines, and listen-
ing to the race on the radio. Inside, of
course, his soul is revving up, fuelled by
the humiliation. His time will come.
Bale is a cussed and calculating actor,
yet he’s never been more likable than
he is here—an irony to relish, since the
character he plays makes so little effort
to be liked. Miles is a Brit, from the
fringe of Birmingham, with an accent
of impermeable glumness. Chin up,
mouth down: the basic demeanor of the
mutinous. The idea of his obeying cor-
porate strategy at Ford, let alone taking
on the mighty glamour of Ferrari, is it-
self an excellent joke. (Shelby, played by
Damon at his most chipper, is more pli-
able. Being a Texan, though, and rarely
hatless, he is anything but a pushover.)
Mangold adds an unexpected grace note,
for Miles has a wife, Mollie (Caitriona
Balfe), and a son, Peter (Noah Jupe),
both of whom he adores. Indeed, the
three of them constitute what will be,
for current moviegoers, a bewildering
rarity: the non-sappy happy family.
Balfe, though she doesn’t have a heap
of screen time, is forceful in all she does.
Annoyed with Ken, Mollie guns their
station wagon at such a furious clip that
even he, seated beside her, begs her to
slow down. And Balfe is there again,
in the movie’s best scene—no cars, no
crowds, simply a sunny day in suburbia.
Shelby shows up at the Miles residence,
and Ken, who has a beef with him, clonks
him on the nose; soon the two of them
are slugging it out on a patch of grass
across the street. Mollie emerges, takes
one look, and, instead of rushing over
to stop them, fetches herself a garden
chair and calmly settles down with a
copy of Better Living to watch the bout
unfold. She sees these men for what
they truly are. Boys will be boys, how-
ever fast their toys.
The more dangerous fight is reserved
for the track—for many tracks, from
Willow Springs, an hour or so north of
Los Angeles, to Daytona, and thus, cli-
mactically, to the course at Le Mans.
Shelby calls it “eight and a half miles of
I
t would be a shame if “Ford v Ferrari”
were to attract an audience composed
of no one but motorheads. The title
doesn’t help. In some countries, the movie
is being released as “Le Mans ’66,” which
isn’t much better. It’s undeniable that
cars, or discussions of cars, feature in al-
most every scene, and that one car is
pushed so close to its limits that its
wheels, inside their rims, glow like the
heart of a forge; yet this is not, in es-
sence, an automotive film. It’s a film about
pride—about being as proud of your own
flesh and blood as you are of your metal
machines, and about the craziness that
flares up whenever pride gets hurt.
Exhibit A: the face of Henry Ford II
(Tracy Letts). It’s the mid-nineteen-
sixties, and we’ve just seen Enzo Ferrari
(Remo Girone), in his Italian strong-
hold, brusquely reject a takeover bid
from Ford. The bad news is brought
back to the boss. Told of Ferrari’s in-
sults, he doesn’t flinch—not, that is, until
the final jab, as reported by an under-
ling: “You’re not Henry Ford. You’re
Henry Ford II.” That does it. That hits
home. His expression is that of every
favored child, through the ages, who has
inherited a shining crown and fears,
deep down, that he doesn’t deserve it.
He is the prince, stuck in the shadow
of the king and seeking to cast his own
light. Letts, who as a performer and a
playwright has grown scarily wise to the
embodiments of power, tightens his fea-
tures and sets his jaw. His eyes, as hard
as stones, are a declaration of war.
Battle is to be joined on the race-
track at Le Mans. Ferrari, who has won
the fabled twenty-four-hour race four
times in the past five years, must and
