Everything is Going to the Beat

Baby Driver is a film set in a world wrought of rhythm. A place that pulses, moves and grooves, somehow soothes despite the staccato rapping of knuckles, bullets, and shoes. Steps pounding the ground. Tires squealing, rounding abound. Pavement torn. Rubber shorn and strewn. Each cut, edit, never losing itself to the thumping tunes infused, pumping through veins and sinew. Cameras trained, bobbing, weaving, brain ingrained, the frame of mind painstakingly blending movement and sound. A clear vision. No refrain. And everything is going to the beat.

It's a world that feels the music as much as the eponymous hero. A world where dialogue is delivered as bass line and gunshots a sharp rat-tat-tat, hits on a cymbal, symbolically showing us each and every scene breathes in sync with the beat. And everything is going to the beat.

Even the things films treat as benign, like paying some mind to the players entwined, is clearly defined and cleverly timed. No mere introduction, no name thrown away. Baby, himself, always allays when a character relays a query, a toe-tapping "B-A-B-Y", percussive and short, a helpful retort to those who purport to have misheard the word escaping his lips. He misses no beat, no skips and no trips. You feel it, you hear it, you're here for the ride. No time to decide. It lures you along, like the piper who's pied. For Baby, each song is a vessel to escape from a mess. You'll watch and you'll hear and you'll grin ear-to-ear, the whole time in awe of the action, so raw yet refined. And everything is going to the beat.

It's a film that's not subtle, except when you double take and see that it's no mistake when the world stops to bop and shake and throw out a word or a phrase in front of your gaze. These details, this grace all over the place. Wright deftly shows he's a genius who knows how to build at such pace that begs you to chase as he directs you to wonder, a feeling asunder that bubbles and forms while the movie is swarming to its inevitable close. It will leave you breathless, even the brief bits of rest give you plenty to see, to hear, and to be in this world that beats like a heart: the source of Baby's tension, Wright's pure intention, a film's grand ascension beyond just a movie. It's plentifully groovy, but it moves me in ways that few have achieved. Beyond all the style, it's the substance Wright weaved. A world rich and grounded, characters rounded, and dialogue that adds as much rhythm as each song did. Each scene coalesces into something impressive, and I left it enamored and eager for more.

Absolutely no hyperbole. In short, I am floored.