In “Drive My Car”, we follow an actor/director's journey into finding things about another young driver he comes across. Soon he realizes that she doesn't just become a vessel for him to get to his house, but also a way to his soul. The 2021 Japanese movie, which won Best International Film award at the Oscars this year, acts as a reminder of how we use art to hide, and eventually to heal. The images, after its 3-hour long runtime, leave you with a lingering feeling; like a towel the film soaks you with all subtle emotions as it moves like a perfectly well oiled- machine.
There's a play within a play in the structure of the screenplay, literally, as characters from different backgrounds converse while we see subtitles projected on the screen in multiple languages. Through such choices, the screenplay, adapted from a Haruki Murakami's short story of the same name, is given a universal texture by having characters belonging to different countries (one even communicates through sign language). There's so much simmering under the dialogue, that each frame collectively goes on to create a meditative space for your brain to enter. The story tugs at your heartstrings through quiet, most mundane moments that run long enough for them to turn into something that goes on to define a character's arc.
The cast of the play in “Drive My Car” spends the majority of the film's second act trying to exactly understand when their co-stars begin and stop talking, by using various cues including tapping on the table after each dialogue. It's a story about our abilities to form connections with others without the use of language. Our protagonist's (Kafuku) entire arc is built around slowly letting go of the tape containing her dead wife's recording of the script, while he constantly uses what he does as a coping mechanism. By the end, the characters learn of an alternative means of communication. Kafuku on the other hand, realizes what a distanced person he has become and drives strength within himself to move on through the medium that he's devoted his whole life to.
There's a 10-minute scene, entirely set within the backseat of a car where two characters come to terms regarding a few unfulfilled emotions, which is the most compelling and emotionally provocative sequence I've seen in any movie in the past year. “Drive My Car” is the kind of film that puts you to sleep because of how calming it could feel in its subtlety at carving out catharsis, and I mean that as a compliment of highest regard to craftsmanship on display. It's fascinating to figure out themes of such a quiet yet layered film, while watching the nourishment of art itself and how it can keep a person from crumbling. When Kafuku says he doesn't want anyone else to drive his car, it represents the grieving and lack of resolution on his part over his wife's passing. So, he doesn't want anyone else to intrude that space, but when he talks about how at peace he feels when Watari drives (describing how smooth her driving is) the car, it's implied that he is allowing that side of his to once again be vulnerable in front of someone, even if it's not remotely sexual. He becomes aware of how the driver doesn't only become a vessel for him to get to his house, but a means to get to his soul. After they become a catalyst to each other for personal revelations, in the end, he realizes that he can't build his life around the voice of a dead woman forever.
Good dramas have the potential of ripping off the bandages of your past wounds open. The self-imposed restraint in the first half makes the dialogue and confrontation in the latter half feel much more cathartic; so much of the underlying drama here is purely intuited through silence, that the emotional journeys of its characters take on a much greater meaning upon re-watch.”Drive My Car” is about the fear of missing out on what the other side has to say and offer, especially when there's a lack of resolution. The pandemic made us realize the importance of being physically present around people to truly understand them better. Films like this are a reminder of how similar all our methods of grieving can often be, overlapping each others'. A reminder of how important it is to communicate and be compassionate to people around you.
