If Top Gun: Maverick was Kosinski’s love letter to American aviation bravado, F1 is his high-octane postcard from the pits of Formula One — where egos rev faster than engines and the rubber hits both track and metaphor. Produced by Jerry Bruckheimer (because of course it is), F1 is loud, slick, and built for speed. It doesn’t break new ground, but boy does it tear around the old circuit like it owns it.
Brad Pitt stars as Sonny Hayes, a washed-up former F1 driver coaxed back into the cockpit to mentor a hot-headed rookie (Damson Idris as Joshua Pearce), whose talent is only rivaled by his chip-on-the-shoulder attitude. Pitt’s Sonny is a whiskey-smooth mix of weariness and fire — part Lightning McQueen, part aging rock star. Idris matches him beat for beat with intensity and just the right dash of arrogance.
The real star, though, is the track. Kosinski and cinematographer Claudio Miranda mount their cameras in the cars — not just beside them — which makes every corner, every gear shift, every near-miss feel like a gut punch. You don’t just watch this movie, you white-knuckle through it. And the score by Hans Zimmer thunders beneath the action like an engine with something to prove.
Still, the script (by Ehren Kruger) sputters in the pit lane. Character arcs feel rubber-stamped from the “mentor-and-rookie” template. We know exactly where the story is going long before the checkered flag. The interpersonal drama — a vague romance, a too-predictable rivalry — feels like it was included out of contractual obligation.
But does it matter? Not really. F1 is pure adrenaline cinema. It delivers on what it promises: sweat, speed, and shiny machines doing things they probably shouldn’t. It’s Rush without the complexity, Days of Thunder without the cheese. And Pitt? He still looks like he could outrun Father Time in an open-wheel car.
RHFC Rating 9.5/10 🍿
