THE MIXER | EDITORIAL
He really did a lot last year to impress us (and it’s not just a Burberry ad). A similar effect could have been assumed ten years ago when he masturbated in front of Lena Dunham. After this, he gave Lena twenty bucks for watching, plus cab money. By then Adam had become a crush for many.
Driver is a creep, he has perfect milky skin with just a scattering of moles, and not a single hair on his sternum (which he once broke while riding a bike). Dunham came up with the idea that Driver would be a sociopath with comic potential. He either smiles or yells like an out-of-tune musical instrument. Very tall, blatantly unsexy, and yet you want to cuddle him.
Adam Driver takes time very seriously, so he has a perfect filmography. There are no questions. He mixes Jarmusch’s Patterson with The Dead Don’t Die or the BlacKkKlansman. In The Marriage Story, he is unbearable, but this is the director’s fault. In Star Wars, too. Driver in a helmet and with a blaster looks like Santa Claus hired for an hour to entertain children. In Annette, he’s amazing. Driver finally plays a really bad person. Rage suits him. He masterfully shows how a murderer is born out of the abyss of selfishness. He understands everything and still kills. Self-love is colder than someone else’s death. House of Gucci, thank Ridley Scott. Cashmere – from the word Cash. Unfortunately, it’s not a TV series and he won’t be able to wear a white sweater for several weeks, which by today’s standards is almost an eternity.
Among the Brooklyn guys, it turned out that there are true demons found. They can not only jerk off to Scorsese, mutter Cassavetes and sourly regurgitate Allen, but also at the last breath, on the edge of a knife, on the front line, be a genius of the screen, a star of the time. Adam with the seal of Cain. I am grateful to him for this.