F1: A Barometer for “the Current Culture” 

Perhaps there’s no more appropriate time for F1 to be released than in 2025. What with the summer of Trumpism (Part Deux) reigning unchecked. Ergo, the summer of “(toxic) masculinity.” Of course, there was already some indicator of this zeitgeist shift last summer, when movies such as The Fall Guy, The Bikeriders, Twisters and Deadpool & Wolverine were at the forefront of the blockbuster genre. And yet, amid those more “laddish” movies (some of which at least had a dash more feminine energy than F1) were the likes of Inside Out 2, I Saw the TV Glow, Maxxxine, Blink Twice and Beetlejuice Beetlejuice. This latter batch providing far more complexity and estrogen to an otherwise straightforward and testosterone-driven set of offerings released in the theoretical peak season of movie-going: summer. 

But the shift away from Barbie (de facto, femme) supremacy in 2023 was already becoming clear as the Orange Creature took over the airwaves again amid the ‘24 presidential race. A race that only intensified during the summer months, when it was announced that then-vice president Kamala Harris would be replacing then-president Joe Biden in the running. The pendulum swinging back toward male dominance and generally “accommodating” it began not long after the Orange One was replaced by Biden at the beginning of 2021. And one could argue that the #MeToo movement at the end of 2017 (ironically, the year that the Orange One would first take office) was what helped to spur the push back toward outright toxic masculinity being embraced as much as it was “appreciated.”

Indeed, the push against feminism in general was what helped the Orange One win yet again during the election of ‘24. And yet, there’s no doubt that F1 feels it’s being “feminist enough” with the incorporation of Kerry Condon’s character, Kate McKenna, who serves as the technical director for the APXGP team. A team owned by Ruben Cervantes (Javier Bardem), an old chum/racing rival of none other than F1’s “complicated” (read: dickhead) protagonist, Sonny Hayes (Brad Pitt). A chip-on-his-shoulder kind of guy introduced to the tune of Led Zeppelin’s “Whole Lotta Love” (which is hardly a benchmark for the general sound of F1 the Album). This being a very calculated song choice on the part of music supervisors Jake Voulgarides and David Taylor. After all, it’s meant to serve the purpose of getting across the message that Sonny is one “badass, no-fucks-given dude,” but also that he’s an “old-timer.” A man of an age who likes genuine classic rock (as opposed to what is currently being passed off as classic rock—e.g., Radiohead and Nirvana). Besides, the sound in the background of the track even occasionally mimics the sound of a car whipping around the racetrack.

Which is exactly what Sonny is about to do after napping in his van during the first race of the narrative: the 24 Hours of Daytona. Otherwise known as Rolex 24 at Daytona. This name being an indication of how much corporate sponsorship influences these various races on the road to or on the periphery of Formula One. Not to mention Formula One itself being one giant ad for everything car-related (and even not so much) under the sun. Almost as if to emphasize the meta point that F1 is ultimately a two-hour-thirty-six-minute commercial, Ruben is sure to inform Sonny, upon orchestrating an encounter with him at the coin laundry, that he’s wearing a Gucci suit. This declaration made after Sonny mentions he used to have a friend who looked like him, but that he dressed better. It’s all part of the “male barbing” one would expect of a movie like this, for Ruben is, of course, that old friend in question. A man who presumably sold out to become the owner of a team rather than a driver for one. Not that being a driver doesn’t require its own form of selling out. Something that wasn’t very “chic” to do in the 90s, when Sonny was experiencing his heyday—hence, all the flashbacks to his life-altering car accident being “in VHS.”

And, as for that near-fatal crash on the racetrack back in 1993, it turned Sonny into the “drifter” he is today. Or rather, the “nomadic driver” he is, flitting from one race to another as a driver-for-hire, constantly reiterating that he’s not doing it for the money. Leading most people to ask, well, then, what the hell for? This, of course, underscoring the “American” notion that all things should be done for money, not passion—and certainly not anything like joy. 

But, of course, what fundamentally draws Sonny to keep going back to the race—and now, to F1 for the first time decades—is the thrill it gives him. Not to mention the ego boost. Which is why, when Ruben leaves the diner (after migrating from the laundromat), having presented Sonny with his offer of a seat in the F1 race, Sonny asks the server (Avis-Marie Barnes) behind the counter what she would do in a situation where one of her friends made her an offer that sounded too good to be true. She replies, “Well how much are we talkin’?” “It’s not about the money.” She then demands, “So what is it about?” Again, the glory, the thrill, the ego-stroking of knowing he’s “the best.” A reassurance that he was robbed of in 1993, and has been chasing to recapture ever since. 

What’s more, considering that the movie’s “appeal” is being marketed not just to those who are Formula One and Brad Pitt enthusiasts (though Angelina Jolie could give you many reasons why that’s a mistake), but also as a reteaming of “the people that brought you Top Gun: Maverick,” it’s no wonder the overarching premise is similar. That is to say: a cantankerous “old guy” is linked up with a rookie, in a partnership that turns out to be mutually beneficial to both. Even as the two, with their generational differences (and, in this case, racial differences), often butt heads. And yes, also like Top Gun: Maverick, F1 is reliant on plenty of har-har-har jokes about Sonny (ergo, Pitt) being old, washed up, etc. Complete with Ruben eventually telling him, “No one drives forever, Sonny. Not even you.” With these words, he seems to be talking to Brad Pitt as much as his character. As though to say, You haven’t got many movies left in you (and yes, Pitt himself has talked of being on his “last leg,” acting-wise).

And while it should be refreshing to see ageism directed at men in Hollywood for once, it’s obvious that the view of old men still being desirable remains unchanged. Thus, the expected age difference between Pitt and his love interest of the movie, Condon. Sixty-one to her forty-two, the nineteen-year-age gap is “child’s play” (if one will pardon the icky pun) compared to some other ones that Hollywood has paraded (e.g., The Big Sleep, Sabrina, Charade, As Good As It Gets, Entrapment, A Perfect Murder and anything directed by Woody Allen). 

Yet because Condon is “mature-looking” and Pitt “well-preserved,” their forced romance gets a pass. Though not enough of one to warrant anything more than a very chaste “sex” scene, which is more like the implication of sex to, er, come. This being on-brand for a movie geared toward testosterone-coursing-through-their-veins men who are likely sexually frustrated (after all, there’s a reason small-penis’d men are associated with needlessly revving their engines and/or generally being obsessed with cars). Besides, the real purpose of Kate isn’t to actually be a fully realized character, but to “push” Sonny to better understand himself (for the woman must always be in service of the man, n’est-ce pas?). Which is why she’s yet another person who asks him what he does it all for. Specifically, she tells him, “The only question here is why did Sonny Hayes come back to F1? Now that question is extremely fucking urgent.” 

Not for Sonny though, who prefers to take his time on the self-discovery front as he saves all of his quickness for the racetrack. Granted, there’s nothing quick about the movie itself, bloated to its whopping runtime for the sake of giving the F1 fans what they really came for: some races shown on IMAX. But if that’s what it takes to get Apple the box office winner they’ve been seeking, so be it. Besides, F1 is nothing if not a barometer (not to be confused with a speedometer) of where the culture is at right now: geared exclusively toward men and by men.