This generation—Millennials, ’80s babies, whatever you want to call us—seems to have an identity problem.
We don’t have heroes.
Ask your dad about his favorite movie. Chances are, things like “Cool Hand Luke,” “Bullit,” “Easy Rider” and “Dirty Harry” show up*. Assuming your dad was born in the early-to-mid’50s (like mine), he was a teenager when these movies came out.
Getting protein never looked so cool.
These were cool dudes driving cool cars, scoping out babes and doing whatever the hell they wanted. For them, life was about the freedom of an open road and .357 kept close to your side.
Even Harrison Ford in “American Graffiti” stirred up a fire with that beautiful ’55 Chevy (which used an M-22 Muncie transmission, btw). Mine and Dave’s dads grew up street drag racing and became pals as a result, so that movie has a special place in my heart. All of these movies do, really.
But here’s the question: Where the hell is our Frank Bullit? Our Cool Hand Luke, our Bob Falfa and Harry Callahan?
I had the pleasure of viewing Drive recently, and seeing Ryan Gosling playing the unapologetic loner balancing a moral compass and sense of responsibility resonated something in me. All dudes feel it, I’m sure.
What struck me most was Gosling’s portrayal of the persona our dads seemed to embody at our age**. He’s a wrencher with a hot ride and lives on his own terms. Really, it was the first time in a long while that I’d seen that attitude or character.
Take a look at some important ’90s movies: Things like Fight Club, Reservoir Dogs, Payback and The Big Lebowski come to mind. But that “edge” just isn’t quite there.
Don’t get me wrong, we love The Dude. But we’re not in our ’40s and slumming it.
The 2000-era particularly messed with everyone, what with 9/11 and all. A lot of films focused on our emotions: Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, The Royal Tenenbaums, Ratatouille, Lost in Translation and even 25th Hour come to mind (the latter being a bit more gritty, but that feeling remains nonetheless). You also get Kill Bill, Memento, No Country for Old Men and The Dark Knight to boost the “hell yea!” factor.
But where is our icon? Can we really related to Bruce Wayne, A History of Violence’s Tom Stall or Munich’s Avner? Meh.
We’re up against generations that claim The Wild One and Rebel Without a Cause, Magnum Force and The Sting, Back to the Future and Star Wars, Predator and Terminator, GODDAMN LETHAL WEAPON 2. Where is our Martin Riggs? Why are we so lost?
I dare you to watch just five minutes of Lethal Weapon 2
Gosling called Drive his “superhero” movie and said this:
When I was a kid, when I first saw First Blood, it kind of put a spell on me and I thought I was Rambo. I went to school the next day and I put all these knives in my Fisher-Price Houdini kit and I f**king threw them at all these kids at recess, and I got suspended.
Hell yea. We want our First Blood. Drive is like that, in a sense, because we see the grim reality of Hollywood that we think we know, but just haven’t witnessed. The Driver is some dude using his talents to make a buck.
I mean, for pete’s sake, the dude sits in his apartment working on car parts. That dedication to a craft or interest is a key point in saying, “The Driver is our icon.” You could even go as far as saying Gosling is our dude.
Notice that Newman-like lazy eye too?
Honestly, he’s in films that sync with certain stages of our lives:
Trying to fit in: The Believer
Love and love lost: The Notebook
Trying to make a difference but haunted by your demons: Half Nelson (I cannot stress how good this is. Plus, Broken Social Scene soundtrack!)
Constantly misunderstood: Lars and the Real Girl
Then, BOOM, 2011 hits and Ryan Gosling shows us we can look good + be men at the same time: Crazy, Stupid Love; Drive and Ides of March.
Another reason to relate with him and pit him as an icon: We grew up with him! He was on Are You Afraid of the Dark?, Goosebumps and was even Young Hercules.
This dude knows us.
Whereas Rambo makes us want to throw knives at people, The Driver and Ryan Gosling make us want to wear trim clothing, have good haircuts and make our own rules.
Not a bad tradeoff.
P.S. Here’s a cool infographic on Millennials.
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* I asked my dad for a few of his favorite movies and he responded, “I love the smell of napalm in the morning.”
** A few quotes from my dad from those days can be seen here and here.
Summer Teen Zine 
Great perspective Erik! You have stirred a few memories that must be shared……
There was an awesome, electrifying feeling to behold out on a starry Friday night, with the freshly painted stealthy black ’69 Z28 shining like new money, sporting a fresh M-22 “Rock-Crusher” trany behind the 400 horsepower of only 302 cubic inches that drank high octane fuel like a rock band drummer quaffing down free craft brew. Oh yeah,… Press hard on the brake pedal, hit the line lock attached to the Hurst shifter, quickly snap the revs to 5 grand, pop the clutch and the huge rear Firestone meats would begin to smoke… and smoke and smoke and smoke……. You woulda thought it was John Force doing a very showy Funny Car burnout at the US Nationals….
Just as the gas pedal was released to bring the RPM down to the small-block Chevy’s radical over cammed idle while mashing the clutch to the floor, an old guy (of at least 55 or so) in a well worn hand-me-down cop uniform sporting a 3 cell Mag-Light in his left hand would choke his way through the plume of pungent ,hot rubber while screaching at the top of his lungs–“Get the !#$%@& out of here ya %^@#$in’ gear head AND don’t come back again!!!! EVER!!!!”
Yes, it was George the Custer’s Last Stand traffic cop….Doing his thing for what he had to do earn a meager paycheck. Knowing full well that he was thinking that he would gladly slash off his right nut (the only good one he had left) with a dull knife just to have a turn behind the controls of my shiny Z.
Many times I recalled those vivid recollections of ol’ George stumbling through the haze waving his flashlight as I was grinning ear to ear. Yep, once again I was successful at pissin’ off ol’ George. Now in my much wiser years there are times I wish that I had given George the opportunity to take a stab at commanding the 400 horsepower after sharing a few bottles of the unlawfully procured icy cold Coors beer that was so lovingly stashed in the small trunk of my Camaro. (At that time Coors was only sold west of the Mississippi ya know.) Why shoot, that just may have been THE thrill of a lifetime for ol’ George. Of course, it’s too late now.
My advice–give the ol’ farts in your life a chance to experience a thrill they would never be able to embrace unless you make it happen. R.I.P. George–too bad I didn’t make it happen.
This article, coupled with your dads comment above, is gold.