Ford v Ferrari

by Michael Augsberger

Ford v Ferrari gets Le Mans very right. It understands the 24-hour endurance race's personality and quirks. It also gets the 1966 race's climax, its feel and its truth, spot on. That's what defends the film from its tonal equivocation and its expository dialogue. But it can't do all the heavy lifting. Like Ken Miles says, there really is more speed just yearning to break out of this picture, but not under these confines set for it. Not as a buddy-comedy that tries to transcend its genre.

First, the exposition, which never stops:

"It's been six months, Carroll."

Stopwatch in hand: "He's about to break his own record!"

Le Mans tannoy, in English: "It's been a thrilling race day here at Le Mans and we're coming up on the last lap!"

Unprompted executive: "Taking on Ferrari would mean..." so we know it's a difficult task.

Now would be a good time to introduce the gold standard of racing films, Senna. That's a documentary, where it’s even harder to do this, that understands the power of showing rather than telling—there are no shots of talking heads, only thrilling footage through which we can't help but be swept up by Ayrton Senna's charisma.

Contrast it with Ford v Ferrari, where characters often inform each other of things mainly for our benefit, speaking lines like the above. Instead of sounding authentic, immediate, sportscasters read from scripts meant for our understanding. (The gold standard of film sportscasting seems still to be The Mighty Ducks' Bob Miller, to whom they must've said, "No script, just describe it like you would an LA Kings game.")

Of course the racing genre requires some of this. It's hard to explain strategy in so small a window, and credit the filmmakers that we are never scratching our heads. But here it's not just in the races. It's everywhere. And it can be done more subtly, deftly, authentically. All of this to say: Enough exposition. Immerse me in the world you create and let me figure it out.

Much more concerning, though, is that Ford v Ferrari never strikes the right tone. The conflict, an intriguing true story, arises between Ford Motor Company, which is financing a racing program in the hopes of defeating perennial champions Ferrari, and the racing team it's hired. It would be delicious if both sides were taken seriously.

But from the first scene, we sense the Ford executives, led by Henry Ford II himself (Tracy Letts) and Leo Beebe (Josh Lucas), will not be. The sophomoric wink we get from James Mangold as Henry Ford's entourage storms into a production plant and delivers a Ciceronian kick in the rear never fades throughout the film. All the Suits file in smugly like Special Agent Johnsons from Die Hard. And that's about as much respek they receive all along.

Meanwhile the Italians make their engines like my grandmothers did pasta dinners—with love. Never mind they break down all the time. They don't during Le Mans, and that's what matters—the 24 Hours of Le Mans, the biggest prize in endurance racing, where the winner is the car that has driven the most distance once those 24 hours have expired. Ferrari is all delicate craftsmanship. They are nimble as a company. Ford rather is like a ship docked at sea. It's reliable but takes so many different parts and so much energy to move. A dossier changes hands twenty times there before any action can be taken, someone remarks. This is never far from Mangold's view and never outside his disdain.

Mangold selects this half-comedic tone because the heart of the film lies with Ford's racing team and the relationship between its two leading men. Carroll Shelby (Matt Damon) helms the team—he's the only American driver ever to win Le Mans. But medical issues have sidelined him, and he serves as basically a general manager now. He hires the best driver he knows: Ken Miles, played smartly by Christian Bale. The Brit comes with, shall we say, baggage. A loud mouth, an easily stoked temper. He's tough to work with. Good, because we need some conflict. Beebe would rather lose with an inferior driver because Miles is a marketing concern. He conspired to do as much.

But without going all in on comedy, Ford v Ferrari isn't very funny. A schoolyard-style tussle between Damon and Bale falls flat. Anytime Bale is analyzing the GT40, he shines. How could he not? He pops out after a few laps and diagnoses any number of issues, from airflow to braking to hot gearboxes. But he's made to sound like a video gamer whenever he's in the car, smack-talking opponents like this is Fortnite. When Mangold's tone really hurts, though, is when we shift from this lightness and quasi-farce to Big Boy moments. There are times when Henry Ford really struggles with making the right decision. Racing presents life-and-death decisions all the time. The true story of the climactic race itself is fascinating. These moments don't reach their potential.

The casting of Josh Lucas illustrates the problem even more than Henry Ford. Lucas, full disclosure, usually delights me. He's earned his way, like another favorite Paul Bettany, through roles as tireless sidekicks and supporters (both once supporting Russell Crowe), and I've enjoyed their starring roles for no other reason than for the opportunity afforded them. I knew his voice as Home Depot pitchman without looking it up.

Here his character, Leo Beebe, "Senior Vice President, Ford Motor Company," bumbles around locked in a petty power struggle. Because Mangold wants the buddy-comedy feel, or worse, can't decide which tone to take, he reduces Beebe to buffoonery, outcornered at almost every turn. And given Lucas' body of work, in which he has impressed me, it leads me to say this: Josh Lucas was miscast. He doesn't play bad guys, especially not unsubtle ones without any redeeming qualities. His presence here further confuses the tone.

The film's clear stance is that Ford's bureaucratic culture hinders the racing experts, who are gunslinging heroes praised for their courage and tenacity in standing up to the suits. Ford oozes corporateness, sluggishness, which "the boys" fight tooth and nail. Yet they need Ford's financing. "You can't win a race by committee," Carroll says in one effective boardroom scene. But why not take the executives seriously? Why not give Beebe nuanced motivation and a head on his shoulders? Then the scenes that play for laughs and lose instead play for drama and win.

I said the film handled Le Mans brilliantly, and it does. Of course the issues I've recounted still plague it somewhat. But the setting rises above those. There is a true sense of occasion. You find all of Le Mans' quirks there—the running start, the arguments over interpreting the rules, the passenger door not closing properly. Le Mans is a test of the entire car, not just its speed and cornering but its reliability and durability, and including these bits highlights just how great the challenge looms for Shelby and Miles, much more than the dialogue in the first boardroom scene does. The Italians present an even greater challenge, and credit Mangold for not subtitling every last line but allowing us to behold their expressions and tones.

Plus, this is where some exposition is handled well. A rules debate doubles as learning for us and as drama within the film. And before Miles even leaves for France, Mangold teaches us the contours of the Le Mans track itself in a beautiful scene where Miles’ son shares his crayon-and-paper version of it. Father talks son through his plan for each corner and the Mulsanne Straight. It reminded me of Titanic, when computer animation shows us the sinking’s details early so we can focus on the characters later. 

The real jewel comes in the form of the decision first Shelby and then Miles must make in the closing stages of the race. Despite everything, we've come to know them and their relationship well enough to enjoy the drama of their decision-making process. They stay true to their characters. Bale and Damon enact it beautifully. It does honor to the true historic account and even manages to surprise us.

Le Mans isn't the only bright spot here, though. Ford and Shelby share one of the best scenes in the film when Carroll contrives to give him the passenger seat for a trip around the test circuit. The g forces overwhelm this magnate who hails helicopters to five-star restaurants. He breaks down, sobbing—it is so over-the-top that it is meant for laughs. And it did get some at my theatre. It was one of three times I laughed over the two-and-a-half hours. Still the scene moves us because Ford finally realizes these are not his daddy's cars; they have advanced too far since then, and he cannot interfere in the team's affairs if he understands so little and cannot withstand even half a lap.

But to me it would have had even more effect if theretofore we had come to respect Ford's argument and his executives better, if we had seen them as more than Empire stormtroopers fulfilling corporate directives. Then Ford would have dialed it down a few notches, wouldn't cry comically but powerfully; we'd buy in because the film's earned that; and as a whole it would have had something meaningful to say about real people instead of cowboys.

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