I am a believer in film. All film. The slow, the stupendous, the horrendous, the clean, the brash. Simply said, all film. Because, without the tripe there would be no good and without the flawed there would not be the Hitchcockian, etc. etc. etc. This weekend I partook in a film that to the untrained eye may appear to be just another piece of flotsam lining the shelves of our local blockbuster. But, an eye studied in the ways of classic presentation can pluck from the rack an undiscovered morsel that has much to offer despite its minimal fanfare. One such film is none other than Stallone's latest opus, Driven.

While I, or any, could pedantically describe its faults for the duration of the indy 500, few could highlight the positive elements this flick possesses. For instance, the creators of Driven have developed the ability to make a guy, a single guy, sweat profusely through the whole film. While the rest of the cast maintains a cool and dry demeanor, this guy is soaking wet like he's just been taken from another movie set where he was disarming a bomb. No small feat here guys and you just know the das boot boys are quite jealous. Secondly, many, if not all, of Hollywood manufacturers have attempted to meld the flash of action and wispiness of romance with modest success. But, to attempt this even when only equipped with the acting equivalent of a fork/spoon combination from KFC shows true and admirable grit. Lastly, I never, never, never thought it was possible to see a film that made me wish I was watching Days of Thunder. And, that's saying not a little since Days of Thunder made me wish I was front and center for the opening night of Stroker Ace. And never mind the fact that Stroker Ace made me wish I was at the celebrity pre-screening of Six Pack.