F1 — REVIEW

I’ve never followed Formula 1. I’ve never thrilled at the roar of an engine or waited for a Sunday afternoon race to see who would claim pole position. That entire world has always felt like distant noise, abstract numbers and foreign rituals. Maybe that’s exactly why F1, the film, intrigued me: what could it possibly make me feel as someone completely new to such a coded, mechanical universe?

 

The answer turned out to be an unexpected mix of visual awe and narrative fatigue.

 

From its first frames, F1 makes its intentions clear. This isn’t merely a film about motorsports; it’s a tribute to the legend of Brad Pitt, assembled with the now‑familiar Top Gun: Maverick blueprint. A world drowning in images, influencers, and sponsorship deals contrasts with a longing for the purity of movement and instinct. On paper that tension is compelling, yet on‑screen it often feels like a glossy advertisement for nostalgia.

 

Narratively, F1 stalls. It leans on overworked tropes: past trauma, testosterone‑laced rivalry, romance on autopilot, a villain sketched in broad strokes. Nothing is outright embarrassing, but little feels alive. You hear every plot beat grinding like poorly tuned gears, while the dialogue spins its wheels. Scenes bleed into one another with déjà‑vu familiarity, and a detour to Las Vegas bloats the story needlessly. The script flirts with commentary on media excess and late‑stage capitalism, but it registers more as posture than point of view, especially ironic given the corporate logo parade that precedes the opening credits.

 

And yet, despite all that…something works.

 

That something is the racing. When the film quiets down and lets speed speak, when slogans disappear and only mechanics, risk, and rhythm remain, it becomes genuinely gripping. The tension of a turn taken a hair too tight, the split seconds gained or lost, the balletic precision of a pit stop: these moments, rendered with rare clarity and pulse, held me completely. Here director Joseph Kosinski excels, translating sheer physicality into sensual finesse.

 

The cinematography plays with scale, perspective, and texture: the claustrophobia of the cockpit; the crystalline shimmer of a wet track; the shudder of a car pushed past its limit. You feel the pressure, the velocity, the stakes. Whether the images are practical or digital hardly matters, I was right there.

 

An almost old‑fashioned earnestness threads through the film: sweeping gestures, a lone hero squinting into the sunset, Hans Zimmer’s score swelling, brotherhoods forged in grit and roar. It’s oddly endearing. The film’s most powerful passage is, fittingly, wordless: the final straightaway, a moment that feels less like acceleration than lift‑off, an ascension toward something larger than the character himself. It passes quickly, but it feels utterly real, and for that instant I’m grateful I saw F1.

 

In the end, F1 isn’t a great film, but it isn’t a failure either. It’s hybrid entertainment: dented by formulaic writing yet rescued by inspired direction. I won’t remember the lines, or even the lead performance. I’ll remember the feeling that cinema can still, now and then, lend dimension to a world I once thought held nothing for me.