The opening credits for this film appear as we watch Kafuku (Hidetoshi Nishijima) driving a vintage Saab 900 along a Japanese Highway. The distinctive red car, almost a character itself, follows the inclines of the road to the soft strings of Eiko Ishibashi’s score. We’re presented with a clip that suggests we’re about to watch an easy-going road trip flick. However, this also happens to be where Drive My Car takes its first detour, since it is in fact 45 minutes into the film, that this opening scene takes place.
Directed by Ryusuke Hamaguchi and adapted from a Haruki Murakami short story, Drive My Car tells the story of Kafuku, a middle aged, renowned theatre actor and director as he prepares to stage a production of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya for a festival in Hiroshima. In line with festival rules, he is assigned a driver to take him to and from the theatre each day. Over the course of their time together, himself and his younger driver, Misaki (Toko Miura), develop a deep and unexpected bond with one another. Drive My Car, is many things: It is a searing examination of grief, a closer look at the somewhat blurred distinction between life and art, a parable in how to live to the full when faced with great hardship and overall, a quietly beautiful piece of filmmaking.
The Kafuku we meet to begin with appears to be leading a fulfilling life. He is deeply devoted to his wife, Oto (Reika Kirishima), he’s a dedicated, and much acclaimed stage actor, and the broad impression we get, is of a man with a spring in his step. What we come to know, is that all is not what it seems. Underneath the surface of a perfect marriage, is an ugly reality. After the death of their young daughter years prior, the emotional trauma still lingers. Oto turned to sleeping with other men, and Kafuku, aware of this, chooses not to broach the subject with her, preferring instead to repress his feelings and project a persona that everything is well and fine when it’s not. Then, when his wife dies unexpectedly, the emotional wound that was starting to heal is prised open again. And this is where Drive My Car really kicks into gear.
Much of the film’s attention is centred on a highly unconventional production of Chekhov’s Uncle Vanya. Instead of being performed in one language, Japanese as you might expect here, Kafuku, now in the director’s chair, sets out to create a multilingual version of the play. Characters interact with one another in a variety of languages ranging from English to Mandarin and even to Korean Sign Language. With the actors visibly struggling to understand one another on stage, the bizarre concept forces them to improvise and rely more on their body language to communicate. The cast themselves add real colour and depth to what is an intimate and private film. There’s Takatsuki (Masaki Okada), a young hot-head with a revealing past, Janice Chan (Sonia Yuan) a talented and headstrong woman, and most notably Lee Yoon-a (Park Yoo-Rim) a mute actress, who quietly resonates with those around her on a surprisingly deep level.
A winner at the Cannes Film Festival for best screenplay (adapted by Takamasa Oe with Hamaguchi), the film has a lyrical, almost poetic quality, taking the minimalist workings of Murakami’s story and fleshing them out on screen. Many of the conversations happen in the car, as Misaki drives Kafuku to and from the theatre each day. At first, he chooses to play a cassette tape of Uncle Vanya, using the journey to recite the titular character’s lines with the recorded voice of his deceased wife playing all the other parts. The play is a grim affair with lines such as – Oh, how miserable I am! I can’t stand it. Why was I born so poorly favoured? The agony! Slowly, the barrier between driver and passenger disintegrates. In conversation, they learn more about one another, particularly that their lives have more in common than first assumed.
Visually, the film is a feast for the eyes with a range of beautiful and understated shots. Cinematographer Hidetoshi Shinomiya, leverages natural light both in the intimate bedroom space and in many of the aerial road trip shots. You play the quiet observer in the back seat of Kafuku’s car, as well as an attentive audience member at this theatre production. One standout setup, is where Janice Chan and Lee Yoon-a rehearse a scene together outdoors on a sunny autumn afternoon. It looks gorgeous on screen and stands out as a real moment of tenderness and joy.
Thematically, the subjects dealt with are weighty and thought provoking. As mentioned before, grief is a dominant presence here and we come to learn that it takes many different forms. For our lead protagonist it manifests itself in a restrained yet controlling personality. He no longer seeks the cut and thrust of acting and is far more contented pulling the strings from the director’s chair. Instead, his acting skills cross over into real life, with each interaction requiring a nuanced ‘performance’ of its own. The fact that he still drives his 30 year old Saab car with a cassette player is evidence that he’s clinging to the past. Grief is presented, not just as mourning the loss of a loved one – it also means to mourn the loss of the life you lived together, and the person you once were with them, which you will never get back.
This film strikes you as a closer look at human nature, particularly Japanese culture – the way people don’t always say what they feel and that each one of us has our blind spots. Kafuku dwells on all the things he didn’t say to his wife when she was alive, exhibiting a narrow mindedness when we meet him first. Misaki also has her demons, with her job as a driver and the cigarette in her hand serving as the only real outlets for her feelings. A common thread running through the film, is that language often fails us in real life and liberates us through art. Lee Yoon-a, the mute actress played brilliantly by Park Yoo-Rim, cuts through the noise, giving us all a workshop in how to live more authentically despite the hardships we face.
Drive My Car is a wonderfully poised and tender drama that takes viewers on a journey. Although 3 hours in length, the picture flies by – grasping new and intriguing storyline threads along the way. The Beatles song isn’t front and centre here, but the innuendo within the lyrics certainly informs the film’s subject matter, no doubt. There are a variety of beautiful driving sequences to see, but again, this is not your typical road-trip film either. When we say to someone, baby, you can drive my car, we’re putting our trust in them to take us where we want to go, and in doing so, we learn to trust ourselves again. A fine parable of love in one of its many forms.
5/5