Wheels: Petit Prix

By J.C.

Steve McQueen's style of glacial cool has been perfected close to the point of impenetrable mannerism. Playing a racing driver in Le Mans, he only stands in front of the camera and allows himself to be photographed. Occasionally his lips will twitch into that shy, strong, ironic half-smile that he has made his trademark. In really grandiose scenes he may make a gesture. He might even wave. But only under pressure.

The story, like the star's acting, is so spare as to be virtually nonexistent: McQueen, injured in the race last year, returns to the competition to have another go at it. Since the film makers appear to have been interested in constructing a kind of fictional documentary, most of the dialogue has been eliminated. What remains is either mundane, mechanical chattel-or pitiful profundities of the why-I-race variety. Visually, the film never gets out of low gear. There is not a single scene or shot that was not done first and better by John Frankenheimer in Grand Prix.

McQueen is still potentially a good movie actor, but he needs someone to loosen him up, make him play a part, not pose for it. In Le Mans he has surrounded himself with the sort of second-rate production talent that offers no protest to his rampant self-indulgence. Le Mans may be the most famous auto race in the world, but from a theater seat it just looks like a big drag. .:J.C.

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