Unconventionally, the title credits for Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s new film, “Drive My Car,” appear on screen an incredible 41 minutes into what is an almost 3-hour long film. What transpires beforehand is so captivating it’s almost a jolt to see them, but Hamaguch’s choice is a necessary demarcation. A chapter moving enough to succeed as a stand-alone film in and of itself has closed. It’s also a mark of Hamaguchi’s grand ambitions in adapting Haruki Murakami’s short story to the screen.
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If that’s what we are to call it, the prelude begins with Yūsuke Kafuku (Hidetoshi Nishijima, stellar) and his wife Oto (Reika Kirishima, captivating) in bed in a postcoital daze. Oto is a Japanese television writer and producer, while Kafuku is a well-known and successful stage actor. She recounts a vivid story to him about a girl who sneaks into the bedroom of her teenage crush. She’ll return to this story when they make love again, and Kafuku will remind her of the details for her writing. Kafuku likely knows the tale as an allegory for his wife’s affairs outside their marriage, but he simply does not want to acknowledge it, as we learn later. They lost their only child years before, and he cannot bear losing her as well.
Following a performance of “Waiting for Godot,” Oto arrives at Kafuku’s dressing room to introduce him to one of the network’s rising young stars, Kōji Takatsuki (Masaki Okada, perfectly cast). Kafuku doesn’t think much of him or the introduction at the time, but it’s clear he means something to Oto. Kafuku learns why sometime later when he arrives home to spy on Oto and Takatsuki, making love in their living room.
Kafuku prepares for his roles by driving around the city in his vintage SAAB two-door (the “car” in question), practicing his lines with an old-school tape recording Oto has made for him speaking the corresponding parts. His next role is that of Uncle Vanya from Anton Checkov’s play, a character decidedly around his own age and, as the film progresses, one that speaks to the pain he is about to endure. As he returns home after one such line reading excursion, he finds Oto collapsed on the floor. A tragic victim of an unexpected brain hemorrhage. And Kafuku is alone.
Following the aforementioned credits, the film then jumps two years ahead. Kafuku is on his way to an artist-in-residence gig for a local cultural institution in Hiroshima. He’s set to direct a new version of “Uncle Vanya” using actors from different nations and with decidedly different languages to play the roles. His vision mixes Japanese, Korean, Chinese, and Korean sign language to demonstrate how universal Chekhov’s 1898 work still is today.
Quietly reeling from his wife’s death all these months later, Kafuku is taken aback by several events upon his arrival. Much to his displeasure, the institute insists he uses a driver while traveling to and from his temporary residence. The driver in question, Misaki Watari (Tōko Miura), is a young woman hiding her own demons below a cool, professional exterior. He’s then hit with another jolt when Takatsuki unexpectedly decides to audition for a role in the play. Kafuku’s time in Hiroshima will determine whether he can find closure for his own pain or simply accept it and move on. As the character Sonya says in “Uncle Vanya,” “What must we do? We must live our lives.”
It somewhat goes without saying that Hamaguchi and co-screenwriter Takamasa Oe walk a very thin thematic line by interweaving so much of the film’s metaphors with Checkhov’s work. In less confident hands, it could come across as a repetitive theatrical crutch overwhelming the proceedings. Instead, Hamaguchi masterfully lets the proceedings play out at their own pace. Granted, it’s a leisurely one, but that’s a minor quibble considering how captivating the film’s grounded aspirations are. And those aspirations are many.
Despite what may initially seem to be a somewhat straightforward contemporary drama, Hamaguchi has crafted a rich, skilfully layered masterwork with flawless performances and a script that is a screenwriter’s holy grail. It sticks in your brain for days and nudges you to take it in again. How many three-hour films can you say that of? Not enough, frankly. [A-]
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