I have a lot in common with the main character in Baby Driver. I, too, frequently fantasise about being an action hero and pretend I’m being backed by Simon and Garfunkel whenever I do something mildly impressive, like change a duvet cover all by myself or jump over a hedge. Granted, he’s a getaway driver who constantly listens to his iPod and I’m someone who has no interest in either cars or music, but apart from that we’re exactly the same person.
The character’s name is Baby, and the reason he’s always listening to music is because he’s trying to drown out his tinnitus. I also get a loud ringing in my ear sometimes, but it usually goes away when I stop screaming. Baby’s playlist fills him with the required adrenaline to pull off dangerous
star cunts car stunts, like flip-reversing and punching the starfish, which my uncle informs me are types of manoeuvres.
However, it’s quite clear from watching the film that all of the music is in his head and this is most likely the depiction of a sentient jukebox’s dream. He imagines himself as a human getaway driver for Kevin Spacey, working alongside Jon Hamm, who isn’t remotely made of ham, and Jamie Foxx, who I believe used to do the rapping. He also procedurally generates a perfect girlfriend in the form of Lily James, something music machines from the future can presumably do.
The fact that he is actually a jukebox means the musical element of Baby Driver is truly special. He’s able to incept non-horrible songs like Bob and Earl’s ‘Harlem Shuffle’ and Incredible Bongo Band’s ‘Bongolia’ into his fantasy, providing a never-ending soundtrack to the chasey bits. It’s a testament to Edgar Wright’s directing that I was able to immensely enjoy the entire experience, despite being driving dyslexic and knowing nothing about hip hop. I hear Steps are back together.
But what I like most about Baby Driver is the sound editing or sound mixing or whatever the category is called at the Oscars. One of my favourite scenes sees Baby, Hamm, Foxx and Eiza Gonzalez attend an arms deal, which results in the characters firing their guns to the beat of a Tequila remix, the gunshots acting as the percussion. I found it so enjoyable I didn’t even realise I was gleefully stabbing the hand of the man sitting next to me with my pen. By the end of the film his palm resembled that of Jesus Christ’s after several failed attempts to nail him to the cross.
Baby Driver is easily the least likely film to give me hives or depression this summer. In fact, I’d say it’s a modern masterpiece. Baywatch filled me with the desire to order several hundred packets of cleansing wipes, The Mummy showed me how to fill time with nothingness and Transformers will undoubtedly knock me back to the third stage on the evolutionary chart. So it’s refreshing to have something original to cherish in this short space of time before the DUP unleash all of the venom-spitting bat pigs.