The Secret Fuel That Makes “Ferrari” Such a Triumph

Half of life is spent dealing with details: the numbers, the paperwork, the dozens of discussions upon which any shared activity, professional or private, is based. (The other half of life is dealing with the results.) Many filmmakers leave such practicalities behind, feeding escapist desires with alluring realms of fantasy. The better ones understand that those details aren’t the antithesis of drama but its essence. Michael Mann has long been a director of details—so much so that they have often sat heavily and portentously in the action, plot points made flesh. His new film, “Ferrari,” is similar but different; it’s the kind of purified, rarefied film that major filmmakers make late in their careers, in which they get to the heart of the matter plainly and present their subjects unadorned and unamplified. In “Ferrari,” Mann’s meticulous attention to the details conveys how deeply he cares about the subject. The story seems more important to him than the manner of telling it or the application of a style, and the story’s details, far from being mere signposts for the plot, emerge as the very essence of emotion, not least because of the stark force of their very nature: they’re a matter of life and death.