Motor racing films always ooze swagger. I hate motor sport, but the films a la baseball always deliver. James Mangold has a good back catalogue, and i feel he has a decent stab at this.

Le Mans '66 is an exploration of this odd-couple relationship, fascinated with ideas of masculinity. And if you can get past Bale's odd 'Brummie' accent it mostly works. The spectre of death lingers in every frame. The racing scenes are anxiety-inducing, with the camera keeping low to the ground bringing smashed-up cars careening into view.

Yet the film's greatest trick is saved for the final reel. For much of its running time, you're fooled into thinking Mangold had made a grand sporting ode to the American dream. And then the rug is pulled right out from underneath your feet. Le Mans '66 may revel in the high life, but its finale feels devastatingly hollow.