After soaring with Top Gun: Maverick, director Joseph Kosinski trades jets for cars, and Cruise for Pitt with F1 — a high-octane showcase that, while visually arresting, never quite hits the emotional apex it’s clearly aiming for.
Brad Pitt plays Sonny Hayes, a once-touted wonderkid of F1, who’s been licking his wounds in the shadows for nearly three decades following a career-ending crash. He’s reintroduced with a thunderous lap at Daytona — all smoke, steel, and swagger — engineered by none other than the Shea Whigham (who then bizarrely vanishes from the film entirely). It’s a stellar opening that promises a grit-fuelled redemption, but what follows too often feels like a glorified, if handsomely made, Drive to Survive segment stretched to feature length.
The bones are all there: the veteran comeback arc, the hotshot rookie (Damson Idris’ Joshua Pearce), and a flailing team in need of a miracle, run by a charmingly frazzled Javier Bardem. But despite a mammoth runtime, we never get enough time in the cockpit with either of our leads. Pitt’s Hayes is creaky but charismatic, Idris smoulders with raw talent, and Kerry Condon works overtime to give the film its emotional spine – but there’s a frustrating lack of depth. We’re told a lot, shown very little, and feel even less.
Films like F1 – or, frankly, any sports movie – don’t need to be the gold standard of storytelling. They just need to feel like something. They need to hit you between the eyes with raw emotion, to earn your cheers and your gasps. Whether it’s through performance, momentum, or one perfectly timed set piece, the best of those (think Moneyball or Creed) make you care deeply about the outcome. Here, that impact is dulled – the drama too polished, the characters too thinly sketched to make the wins (or losses) land with weight.
Tonally, F1 can’t quite decide if it wants to be a character-driven redemption story or an extended promo for the sport. Sadly, it leans too heavily into the latter. Multiple press conferences with Will Buxton? Sure. But only one scene with Shea Whigham? Somewhere in an editing suite lies the actual film, swapped out for an “upgrade package” of sponsor-friendly fluff. And what happened to Simone Ashley’s reportedly cut character? Her presence might’ve added the kind of emotional connection the film sorely lacks — especially with Idris’ Pearce, who feels sidelined in his own arc. Meanwhile, Tobias Menzies is airlifted in late as the supposed antagonist, but there’s no real bite to his bark.
And yet — there’s no denying the sheer thrill of the racing sequences. Yes, the first 90 minutes are a bit of rinse and repeat, but it all builds to a jaw-dropping final act that really does sing on an IMAX screen. If nothing else, Kosinski knows how to make speed look spectacular. That climax? A total rush.
Unfortunately, these moments had their issues as well. Having Crofty and Martin Brundle talk over every moment robs the sequences of tension. Furthermore, instead of letting Hans Zimmer’s score and the engines roar tell the story, we’re handed running commentary that undercuts the cinematic rhythm.
Verdict
F1 looks the part and occasionally flirts with greatness — but unlike the best of the genre, it never quite gets under the helmet.
