Each film makes no bones about the drawbacks. Essentially, there’s a good chance you could end up in hospital or die.
But in the same way that in the 1970s, on average, two Formula One drivers died each year, there was no shortage of willing participants. It was all about the rush. It is that addictive, adrenaline-fuelled competition of motor racing that Rush captures so well.
Nikki Lauda (Brühl) and James Hunt (Hemsworth) couldn’t have been further apart when it came to personality and lifestyle, but their shared need for speed would bind them together forever. Lauda was the ice-cold Austrian obsessive perfectionist (or “arsehole” as Hunt called him). Hunt was the debonair British womanising party animal (or “arsehole” as Lauda called him) who was quite happy to take advantage of his natural charm, good looks and potentially short life span.
Fast cars, beautiful women and two opposite character types locked in a death-defying battle. It doesn’t get much better than that.
History regards Lauda as the greater driver. More wins, more world championships and a stunning comeback from a disfiguring accident that almost killed him. But at the end of the day, ask any bloke who they’d rather be, and they’d all opt for Hunt who lived the fantasy. It’s an irony not lost on Rush. Or Nikki Lauda for that matter.
