Here’s the good news: F1 looks and sounds like a million-dollar lap. Actually, make that $300 million. With real F1 cars, real circuits, and Claudio Miranda’s camera wedged into every curve, you’re practically inside the gearbox. Kosinski directs the race footage like a man who’s been waiting his whole life to strap an IMAX camera to an exhaust pipe. And yes, Hans Zimmer’s score has all the bass drops and brass swagger you’d expect from the guy who once made pirates sound operatic.
The problem is, once the helmets come off, the drama veers straight into pit-lane soap opera.
Brad Pitt plays Sonny Hayes, a retired racing legend pulled back into the sport to mentor a hot-headed young talent (Damson Idris). Cue: clashing egos, philosophical staring across garages, and dialogue that sounds like it was tuned up in a wind tunnel of clichés. Pitt gives it charm, no doubt. He’s ageing like carbon fibre… still quick, still smooth. And Idris holds his own, injecting fire into a script that mostly coasts.
But here’s the thing: beneath the turbocharged visuals, the emotional engine never really starts. The stakes feel borrowed. The backstories are sketched. And the dramatic turns (mentor redemption, rookie pressure, paddock politics) are as predictable as a Monaco pole position.
It’s not bad. Not at all. It’s entertaining in the way a track parade can still be hypnotic. But narratively, it’s running on fumes. You’ll enjoy the ride, but you’ll forget who was in the car by the time the credits roll.
Verdict:
F1 is a gleaming, turbocharged spectacle. But underneath the chassis, it’s a story we’ve already lapped a few too many times.
Style wins pole. Substance misses the podium.
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