Adapted from Haruki Murakami’s short story of the same name, Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s “Drive My Car” is a bittersweet meditation on grief, connection and language. The film, which has just been nominated for four Oscars including Best Picture and Best Director, is the second of two directed by Hamaguchi last year. I entered skeptical about whether the nearly three hour film would keep my attention. But by the time the opening credits dropped—40 minutes into the film—I was fully mesmerized.
The film follows Yūsuke Kafuku, a stage director and actor still mourning his wife two years after her death. He has been invited to a Hiroshima theater festival to direct a multilingual production of Chekhov’s “Uncle Vanya.” The festival assigns a quiet young woman to be his driver, which he initially protests. His red Saab 9000 has become a space of solitude and reflection since his wife’s death, and he feels his grieving process interrupted by the presence of another person. As the two overcome this apprehension, the film begins to center around long conversations that take place in the car. These were the moments when I felt myself get lost in the film, hypnotized by the deeply felt revelations. The length and intimate beauty of the dialogue, along with the weightlessness evoked by the car’s movement creates a feeling not unlike a peaceful and meandering road trip.
Despite the importance of its dialogue, some of the film’s most impactful moments are found in its silences. The emotional intensity of the conversations seem to build toward the catharsis that comes from baring your soul, and here that can only be experienced quietly. Following some painful revelations, Yūsuke and his driver smoke cigarettes out the sunroof of his car. This wordless ritual is a show of respect for the sacred space of Kafuku’s car, while allowing the two to forge a new connection based on their deep unspoken understanding of one another’s grief. Shortly before the end of the film, the sound completely cuts out. I’ve never fully appreciated such a profound silence, and it’s certainly singular among my experiences in a movie theater. The moment comes following the film’s emotional peak and evokes the peace that accompanies the characters’ newfound acceptance of the past.
At the end of the film, the power of language and silence converge, beautifully emphasizing the role of each within the film. A monologue from Chekhov’s “Uncle Vanya” is delivered in Korean sign language. This unique delivery allows for a deafening silence, heightening the impact of the text and performances. Watching the film, you experience the transformative power of Chekhov’s words along with Yūsuke as he realizes he can endure his grief and find rest.
