There have been few more emotive racing films than Le Mans. For the first half-hour, there is no significant dialogue. Steve McQueen arrives at the wheel of his 911; we cut to a shot of an impossibly beautiful woman buying flowers; we witness a fatal accident through McQueen's mind's eye, and then transfer to the circuit where an English voice describes the world's greatest race through a crackly loudspeaker.
Shot during and following the 1970 race, this opening sequence is a wonderful piece of cinematography. Anyone who has ever raced in or even watched one of the classic races will appreciate that tingle of anticipation that precedes the start. Even McQueen's first line has an icy realism: "Watch out for the red Lola."
Thirty-six years later, Le Mans is no longer about a classic contretemps between Ferrari and Porsche. This year, it was all about Teutonic efficiency (Audi) versus the plucky spirit of the French underdog (Pescarolo). Even before qualifying began, it was clear that if one of Audi's new R10 ber-diesels kept going, they'd win, and so it proved. "Zut alors," said the French organizers.
But if the actual race was less than enthralling this year, the spirit of the event, so beautifully captured in the John Sturges epic, lives on. The 24 Heures du Mans might be situated in the heart of France and run by the French, but it remains a peculiarly Anglo Saxon affair.
Brits, some of whom wouldn't know a V8 from a flat-four, dust down their half-forgotten sports cars and make an annual pilgrimage to the Circuit de la Sarthe. Only one other occasion has caused so many Britishers to landed simultaneously in France, and that was called D-Day.
This year was no different. To arrive on the Friday afternoon, as I did, was to witness a heaving mass of sweating, overweight, pink bodies, desperately guzzling cheap lager and making self-important assertions about the likely outcome of the Aston/Corvette duel. Periodically, a flashy car would appear outside the bar, and a baying mob would encourage it to "do a burnout," which they all almost invariably failed to do, prompting hoots of derision.
For many of those present, Le Mans is not really a race at all. It's a giant piss-up set against the back-drop of a few noisy motorcars. Grown men, most of whom could afford a decent hotel, decide en masse that the best place to spend Saturday night is under canvas in a dusty field. Wander through one of the hundreds of campsites on race day and you'll see all manner of $100k Porsches parked beside a $50 tent.
It's a people-watching nirvana. In a bid to recreate the ambience of a four-star hotel, a group of Dutch race-goers decided to project hardcore pornography onto the side of a large truck. Anyone stumbling back to their tent after ten beers too many was therefore confronted by the surreal sight of a 10-foot-long male member. You don't get to see that watching Nascar.
Some people take their beer drinking so seriously that they never make it back to the tents. Wander through the famous Le Mans village-a collection of bars and shops near the paddock -at 6 a.m., and the pavement will be littered with bodies. Only at Le Mans have I witnessed someone sleeping, beer in hand, with his leg attached to fence, as if it were broken.
Daybreak at the Le Sarthe circuit is a strange time for many reasons. The drivers refer to it as "happy hour"-the temperature is cool, visibility is good and there's plenty of rubber on the track. It's the time of day when the best lap times are normally set.
But for the mechanics and spectators, daybreak brings with it a realization that you're barely halfway through the race. This year, the noisy bark of a Panoz or the cry of an Aston Martin DBR9, which had sounded so glorious when the race started at 5 p.m., seemed irritatingly loud to those nursing a hangover. No one should criticize the Audi R10s for being eerily quiet.
As the sun comes up and the temperature increases, spirits rise. By lunchtime, the pattern of the race is normally set and the race is there to be lost, rather than won. Witness Aston Martin, who for the second year running, managed to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. There seems something slightly vulgar about a 'Vette outgunning an Aston-it's just not cricket.