Drive My Car is brilliantly able to breathe and function as its own living thing. The movie acts like a fluid that permeates your body and sticks with you, whether destructive or illuminating. The film follows theater actor Kafuku, who after the death of his wife, moves to Hiroshima. The expedition is depressing yet authentic, and the way the film explores the emotion is powerful.
For starters, the thematic lens that the film encompasses is done with such elegance. After the death of his wife, Kafuku treated his car as a symbol of grief and freedom. Moving to Hiroshima, he reluctantly accepts the driver Misaki to take him to rehearsals for his Uncle Vanya play. The tapes he would play of his wife, Oto, speaking corresponding lines maintain Kafuku's composure and well-being. The car is then initially used as a coping mechanism, to suppress the vulnerability from one's trauma. Kafuku's stoicism is what blocks his true self. Much like his adherence to the script during rehearsals, Yûsuke believes conformity is required to move forward. But through the connection with his driver Misaki, Kafuku changes his perception.
Misaki as her internal struggles, as she too flees her home in an escape from trauma. By observing Kafuku's rehearsals and the mutual interactions in the car, a strong connection between Misaki and Kafuku is formed. The car transforms into an empathy machine, where both characters, through specific nuances, can express their discrete nature and guilt. I must give praise to all the performances but Nishijima as Kafuku and Miura as Watari are both incredible. Their chemistry builds as each scene and day goes on, where it's hard to believe this is even a movie.
I love the way Yamaguchi conveys the opening of the heart through feeling rather than language. Kafuku's play assembles a cast of actors from various places that speak different languages. While not understanding one another verbally, they acknowledge sentiments psychologically. Acting itself can communicate feelings far more powerfully than language alone. Once Kafuku reaches his final catharsis, an astounding liberation of concealment arises.
The subject permeates onto the cinematography of Hidetoshi Shinomiya. Wide shots of bridges connect Yûsuke and Misaki of their internal griefs and mutual respect; long takes of character faces slowly breaking down their inner-self honor what the film generalizes about self-expression. Drive My Car is an honest insight into the conflict of oneself, and I hope to see it again soon.
For starters, the thematic lens that the film encompasses is done with such elegance. After the death of his wife, Kafuku treated his car as a symbol of grief and freedom. Moving to Hiroshima, he reluctantly accepts the driver Misaki to take him to rehearsals for his Uncle Vanya play. The tapes he would play of his wife, Oto, speaking corresponding lines maintain Kafuku's composure and well-being. The car is then initially used as a coping mechanism, to suppress the vulnerability from one's trauma. Kafuku's stoicism is what blocks his true self. Much like his adherence to the script during rehearsals, Yûsuke believes conformity is required to move forward. But through the connection with his driver Misaki, Kafuku changes his perception.
Misaki as her internal struggles, as she too flees her home in an escape from trauma. By observing Kafuku's rehearsals and the mutual interactions in the car, a strong connection between Misaki and Kafuku is formed. The car transforms into an empathy machine, where both characters, through specific nuances, can express their discrete nature and guilt. I must give praise to all the performances but Nishijima as Kafuku and Miura as Watari are both incredible. Their chemistry builds as each scene and day goes on, where it's hard to believe this is even a movie.
I love the way Yamaguchi conveys the opening of the heart through feeling rather than language. Kafuku's play assembles a cast of actors from various places that speak different languages. While not understanding one another verbally, they acknowledge sentiments psychologically. Acting itself can communicate feelings far more powerfully than language alone. Once Kafuku reaches his final catharsis, an astounding liberation of concealment arises.
The subject permeates onto the cinematography of Hidetoshi Shinomiya. Wide shots of bridges connect Yûsuke and Misaki of their internal griefs and mutual respect; long takes of character faces slowly breaking down their inner-self honor what the film generalizes about self-expression. Drive My Car is an honest insight into the conflict of oneself, and I hope to see it again soon.