From a contemporary cinematic perspective, there are few artists quite as interesting as Ryûsuke Hamaguchi, who has steadily found his status growing in esteem, moving from the director of films like Happy Hour (more known for its intimidating running time than it is for the contents of those five hours of stunning filmmaking) and Asako I & II, an acclaimed but still otherwise underpraised film. However, with his most recent offerings, Hamaguchi has finally started to ascend to a position where we can feasibly start a conversation about how he is one of the most fascinating young filmmakers working today, a daring and provocative auteur with a distinct vision and the ability to craft stories that are both enormously ethereal and unimpeachably human. We’ve spoken previously about his anthology, Wheel of Fortune and Fantasy, which takes the form of a series of short stories that riff on themes of love and identity, but it is undeniable that his most noteworthy achievement to date is Drive My Car (Japanese: ドライブ・マイ・カー), at least in terms of it being the film that finally allows him to break through into the mainstream in a way where his name is known by more than just the devoted supporters of his films (although after seeing this incredible work of art, it seems unlikely that someone can consider themselves any less than an acolyte of the director’s cinematic vision), which seems like an enormously overdue development for someone who has been doing terrific work for a while, but has only started to receive the attention for his potent directorial prowess in recent years. Every complex idea and striking portrayal of humanity that Hamaguchi has been carefully piecing together is present in each frame of Drive My Car, a film that is almost destined to be considered one of the greatest films of the present century, and an audacious entry into a canon of incredible films driven by nothing but the firm and undying humanity of one of contemporary cinema’s most important voices.

As one of the year’s most stunning achievements, Drive My Car immediately establishes itself as a film that is going to redefine how we perceive certain issues, particularly those surrounding the razor-thin boundary between reality and fiction – so it’s certainly unsurprising that the film was adapted from a short story by Haruki Murakami, another of Japan’s most important artists, particularly in terms of how he touches on deeply human issues that exist outside the boundaries of ordinary storytelling, but yet appear so natural, being quintessential in how they rework some banal themes into the most striking musings on life itself. His work has been subjected to adaptation by many tremendous artists, but it’s Hamaguchi that perhaps is the most ideal fit for Murakami’s work, not only because they share similar styles of storytelling (where the most simple and evocative of scenarios conceal the most stunning themes), but also that their work manages to reflect on the similar themes, the two artists sharing the same curiosity for the human condition, which has propelled their work and made it so incredibly poignant. Like with the author’s novels, we want to get lost in the world of Drive My Car, voluntarily going on the metaphysical journeys experienced by the characters, accompanying them through a variety of obstacles, both physical and psychological, that ultimately lead to a heartbreaking but hopeful crescendo that does nothing but remind us of the beautiful but fragile nature of life. This flowery description is perhaps the only way to fully encapsulate the uncompromising brilliance of a film designed to evoke the most sincere and authentic emotions, and it’s difficult to imagine anyone being able to adapt Murakami’s words more seamlessly than a director who has frequently demonstrated a keen attention to detail in every one of his films, looking at a primary set of themes that may seem simple at first, but are repurposed as the foundation for some of the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful conversations on the nature of existence ever committed to film.

It seems almost impossible to explain precisely what it is that makes Drive My Car such a riveting work, since there is an elusive quality that propels this film and makes it such a fascinating film. We can start by looking at the common qualities that exist between the stories told by Hamaguchi and Murakami, which is the precise root of where this film finds the most room for commentary. As a whole, the director is constructing a film that ruminates on some of life’s most intimidating questions. The main characters are a widowed theatre director with a degenerative condition that is slowly turning him blind, and an orphaned young woman who makes her living driving for people who often don’t acknowledge her existence, something she has turned into a source of pride, her ability to blend into the background being a quality she has grown to embrace, but which becomes something of a curiosity for her new employer. The film has its foundation in some very real issues, looking at the two main characters (as well as a few in the periphery) as they begin to work through their own trauma, not in traditional psychotherapy, but rather through engaging with each other, questioning their travelling companion’s past, and discovering new details about their lives, which reveal more about the person with which they are sharing so much of their time. The structure is quite conventional insofar as Drive My Car is essentially following the “perfect strangers” pattern of placing two individuals who are seemingly diametrically opposed (in this case, an aloof theatre director more at home on stage than anywhere else, and a working-class driver who has acknowledged the virtue of silence) and gradually peeling away the layers that divide them, allowing the common ground they share to be slowly revealed, demonstrating the depth of their friendship, which may not have been obvious at the start, but was certainly inevitable by nature of the story that was being told. It’s a complex approach, but one that is fundamentally human, the director using this general framework as a starting point for this stunning voyage into the lives of these two fascinating characters.

Considering how he was crafting a three-hour-long humanistic odyssey that pulls apart the layers of existential dread felt by two complex protagonists, Hamaguchi made sure his intentions were reflected in the actors playing the central roles. Drive My Car is an absolutely exquisite showcase for every actor, both the two in the leading parts, as well as the supporting cast, all of which are fully committed to surrendering their talents to a director who has always made it exceptionally clear that he is capable of drawing out astonishing performances from those that trust his process. Hidetoshi Nishijima holds court as one half of the central duo, playing Yūsuke Kafuku, a man who is dealing with a series of seemingly insurmountable obstacles, such as grieving the untimely passing of his beloved wife, and dealing with an incurable ailment that is eventually going to rob him of one of his fundamental senses, which is made even more unsettling considering his entire livelihood is built on his ability to see. Tōko Miura is the other lead, playing the part of Misaki Watari, a young woman who has built her life around being in service of others, to the point where she intentionally fades into the background, doing her job, while all the while actively observing her surroundings, carefully taking note of the people with whom she comes into contact and using these encounters as a chance to learn about the world in which she always felt like a total outsider. Both of the actors are absolutely incredible – their work is subtle but impactful, and all of the themes that the director is intent on exploring are filtered through these individuals. The characterization of Drive My Car was of vital importance, since the message underpinning the film is built almost entirely out of Hamaguchi’s ability to humanize these characters and make them much more complex constructions, individuals who are both fully-formed constructions in their own right (with distinct personalities and clear traits), while being representative of some of the more abstract concepts. Every emotion felt by these characters, whether it be despair or exuberance, reverberates with such incredible intensity, the actors following Hamaguchi’s careful director in the formation of these people and creating some truly unforgettable moments that single-handedly shatters that often unapproachable membrane between the audience and the actors, allowing us to be perched as passive observers into the lives of these truly compelling characters, who are the product of an incredible collaboration between the actors and their director, who sees the potential for developing the story through these characters in absolutely every moment.

Hamaguchi effectively curates a series of intimate moments into the lives of these characters – by the very nature of the film, there was very little he could do that wouldn’t provide us with a wealth of discourse into their lives, whether it be their respective pasts and the traumatic incidents that led them to this particular moment, or their psychological states that compel them to simultaneously retreat from reality and leap directly into the midst of it, since they realize there isn’t any good in running away from the past, even if it means confronting some very deep issues. Drive My Car offers an elegant and tender glimpse into the human condition, provoking some deep discussions that would be considered heavy-handed if they weren’t guided by someone with as distinct an authorial voice as Hamaguchi, whose impeccable vision assists him in unravelling the innumerable themes embedded in Murakami’s stunning but dense story. The most concise way to summarize the many ideas that are used to tie this film together is to describe Drive My Car as an inherent contradiction – somehow, Hamaguchi has made a film that is more a meditation on death, and a reflection of life (but not necessarily in that order). These two themes are not nearly as mutually exclusive as they would appear in theory, since the director is proposing the idea that you simply cannot have one without the other. This is an exceptionally sad film, filled to the brim with tragedy and misfortune that befall both characters, both in the moments presented to us directly, and in their conversations, where their respective histories are revealed, piece by piece. Yet, somehow Hamaguchi finds time to earnestly remark on how beautiful a blessing life actually is – the fact that the main character is able to accomplish something as ambitious as a well-received multilingual production of Uncle Vanya (a notoriously difficult text), all the while working through his own trauma (which is inherently part of the process of healing) is remarkable on its own – and the technique of using a play by Anton Chekhov (another writer who often drew correlations between life and death in his work) is certainly not lost on Hamaguchi, who makes sure to lean into this side of the story, rather than just using it as a framing device for the narrative. It’s a beautifully tender exploration of humanity, taken from the perspective of a pair of unlikely friends, who ultimately prove to have far more in common than just sharing the same space for a moment or two.

While most films of this length are often accompanied by statements from devotees that say that prospective viewers should not be intimidated by the running time, Drive My Car is one of the rare instances where such an exorbitant duration is not only entirely earned, but undeniably intentional. Its origins may be within the realm of short-form fiction, but Hamaguchi’s work is very reflective of the director’s aims to present viewers with something that feels like a true odyssey. Clocking in at only a few minutes shy of three hours, Drive My Car is a much longer film than we’d expect – but every moment is earned, and while it may feel like an exercise in excess when viewed beforehand, we soon learn how each minute is essential, and the structuring of the story contributes to the experience as a whole. Drive My Car is a film that challenges us to look beyond the superficial elements – it is certainly a very measured film when it comes to pace, and the director makes it extremely clear that he is willing to take his time in telling this story, as is his artistic right. Yet, despite its length and slower pace, the film never feels even slightly mundane – it takes the banal moments in the lives of these two characters (being composed mostly of the moments that occur in between major events) and repurposes them as the foundation for an enthralling existential drama that somehow manages to explore numerous themes with thorough conviction, while leaving a few ideas unresolved, solely to provoke conversation amongst viewers, who will hopefully walk away from this film feeling the same unquestionable awe at having just witnessed a few hours of deeply resonant, philosophically-charged drama, and driven to work through our own personal quandaries (whether alone or in dialogue with someone else), which will only complement the incredible journey we have just undergone with these two characters throughout the film, watching them work through their own individual challenges.

Drive My Car is a film firmly in contemplation of some extraordinarily deep issues, while never feeling languid or overly complex in any way. To take a Murakami short story, filter it through a lens of contemporary subject matter (which includes some brief references to recent events, situating it within a reality that we can all recognize to some degree) and produce a three-hour-long humanistic odyssey that feels both epic and intimate, is an achievement all on its own. There’s very little that can be said about this film that hasn’t already been extensively discussed over the past few months as more viewers discover the immersive world that Hamaguchi constructs. There are so many mysteries that define the film, but none of them are quite as effective as the one that questions the very nature of humanity, which it does through placing the viewer alongside these two enigmatic characters who start their (meta)physical journey as complete strangers, and end it as close friends, with the moments between showcasing the development of an incredibly poignant relationship, one that is derived from nothing but the most sincere appreciation for the most seemingly inconsequential minutiae of everyday life, which are formed into moments of awe-inspiring beauty. Whether it be in the stunning performances or incredible filmmaking (with Hamaguchi being both a brilliant storyteller and capable visual stylist, working with director of photography Hidetoshi Shinomiya to capture the journey of these characters in a way that is both beautiful and meaningful), there is something of impeccable merit in every frame of this film. There’s so much that can be analysed and deconstructed when it comes to understanding Drive My Car, a film that focuses on the inevitability of tragedy that may leave scars (both physical and psychological), as well as the process of healing, which can be an arduous but worthwhile journey once we are able to realize that it takes time to fully recover – and between the moments of deep meditation on the nature of life, there are brief sojourns where we are able to celebrate it and acknowledge just how precious life can be when we pay attention to the small details.