Drive My Car: Murakami on Screen, Reinvented
I finally watched Drive My Car, a film I’d been hearing endless praise about from readers and friends alike. After all the recommendations, I went in with high expectations—and still, it managed to surprise me.
Normally, I avoid reading reviews before watching a film, preferring to experience it fresh. But after finishing this one, I couldn’t resist diving into the details: the dialogue, the background, the layers. Along the way, I stumbled upon a curious debate. While the film’s accolades include the Best Screenplay Award at Cannes—making it the first Japanese film to win that honour—some critics accused the director of “betraying” Haruki Murakami’s original story, claiming the adaptation had strayed too far.
I couldn’t disagree more. For me, Drive My Car didn’t just capture Murakami’s world—it brought the imagined version of it, the one readers hold in their minds, vividly to life.
Life as Theatre
Drive My Car is adapted from the opening story in Murakami’s short story collection Men Without Women. The original is concise, focused on three characters: Kafuku, his driver Misaki Watari, and Takatsuki, a man who had an affair with Kafuku’s late wife. The narrative explores Kafuku’s attempt to unravel his wife’s hidden life, connecting with Takatsuki through painful conversations about the woman they both loved. It’s a story about shared grief, loneliness, and the faint comfort of connection.
The film, however, takes its time—nearly three hours of it. It fleshes out Kafuku’s wife, her personality, and her enigmatic allure. It digs into Misaki’s backstory and introduces new characters, each carrying their own metaphors and meanings. At the heart of it all is a production of Uncle Vanya, Chekhov’s timeless play about longing and regret. The play’s dialogue becomes a mirror, reflecting the characters’ real lives as they slowly unearth buried truths and confront their pain.
Theatre as Life
From table reads to rehearsals, the Uncle Vanya production escalates in intensity, mirroring the film’s own trajectory. And then there’s the red SAAB 900, Kafuku’s beloved car. It serves as a confessional booth, a space where raw truths emerge. Takatsuki recalls the ending of Kafuku’s wife’s final story; Misaki shares the pain of her mother’s death; Kafuku finally speaks openly about his wife’s betrayal and his guilt. These moments, though set in the “real” world, cut deeper than any staged performance.
“To truly see others, you must first look deeply and honestly into yourself,” Takatsuki says at one point.
Up until this moment, Takatsuki has been enigmatic, a handsome façade hiding something darker. But as he utters those words, his eyes betray a flicker of vulnerability, a glimpse of someone finally willing to confront the truth within.
Murakami, Reinvented
Some viewers lamented the absence of specific lines from Murakami’s short story, accusing the director of “transforming” Murakami’s work into something unrecognisable. But that criticism feels misguided. The film doesn’t just adapt—it expands. It builds on the original’s skeleton, adding flesh, muscle, and a heartbeat.
In fact, even the newly introduced elements feel steeped in Murakami’s essence. The narrative begins with a mystery, unfolds through enigmatic characters, and invites audiences to explore questions of love, loss, and self-reflection. It’s not just a story—it’s an invitation to look inward, much like Murakami’s best works.
As Murakami himself once wrote:
"People are like houses with two floors. The first floor holds everyday memories, but below lies a basement, filled with remnants of what we’ve forgotten. And beneath that is a second basement—dark, hidden, where untold stories and emotions live."
The film captures this layered complexity perfectly, reminiscent of Murakami’s novel Killing Commendatore, with its themes of buried secrets, art, and haunting memories.
A Way Out
Death, regret, and loneliness are recurring themes in Murakami’s work, and Drive My Car is no exception. His stories often force readers to face life’s shadows, yet they always leave a crack of light. There’s always a way out—a key to escape the metaphorical basement. Like surfacing from the depths of water just before you drown, there’s a catharsis in Murakami’s endings, a sense of clarity that makes the struggle worth it.
“We must live, Uncle Vanya,” a character says in Chekhov’s play.
“We must endure the endless days and nights, and bear whatever trials fate brings us. And one day, beyond the grave, we will say: We suffered, we wept. Life was bitter. But God will pity us. And we shall see a bright, beautiful life, filled with joy.”
It’s this resilience that defines Murakami’s characters. They don’t escape unscathed, but they keep going, carrying their scars and memories forward.
As Murakami wrote in Norwegian Wood:
"Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it."
A Note on the Soundtrack
It’s been a while since I’ve shared a song, but I’ve recently rediscovered Koji Tamaki. Today’s pick: his hauntingly beautiful Mr Lonely. Perfect for a rainy night and a quiet drink.
