The Masterful ‘Drive My Car’ is Now Streaming on HBO Max. It’s a Must-Watch.

One of the most acclaimed films of 2021, the release of Ryusuke Hamaguchi’s Drive My Car was a slow burn, first premiering at the Cannes Film Festival (where it won three awards, including Best Screenplay), and gradually rolling out in a limited theatrical release. It’s currently up for four Oscar nominations, including Best Picture (it’s the first Japanese film to be nominated for Best Picture). And yet, despite its widespread acclaim, not many people have had a chance to see it until this past week, when it was added to HBO Max. Some may be deterred by the film’s daunting three-hour length, or its weighty subject matter concerning grief and loss. But these aren’t good excuses to avoid it; to put it simply, you’d be hard-pressed to find a film from recent years that’s as patient, beautiful, haunting, and rewarding as Drive My Car. It’s an utterly stunning film, one that left me floored by its quiet revelations. And now that it’s widely available to stream, it’d be a mistake to ignore what’s not only one of the very best films of last year, but of the last several years as well.

Adapted from a 2014 short story by Haruki Murakami, Hamaguchi keeps the story’s basic premise and core themes, but widens the scope to cover a greater length and explore greater depths. Drive My Car begins with a 40-minute prologue introducing us to our main character Yusuke (Hidetoshi Nishijima), an actor and theater director, and his wife Oto (Reika Kirishima), a screenwriter. They seem to have a fulfilling relationship; one of their quirks is that Yusuke drives around listening to and rehearsing cassettes of plays that Oto narrated for him, and another is that Oto finds creative inspiration through sex, narrating stories and plot points to Yusuke after the act. She forgets the stories the morning after, so Yusuke helps her put them down on paper. But they’re still dealing with the loss of their child years prior, and there’s frays between them as a result of infidelities. One night, Yusuke returns home to find Oto suddenly dead from a cerebral hemorrhage. This isn’t a spoiler; in fact, it’s essentially where the film properly begins, with the opening credits only beginning after these 40 minutes. Two years later, still struggling to cope with Oto’s death, Yusuke signs on to do a production of Uncle Vanya in Hiroshima, and the theater company hires a chauffeur named Misaki (Toko Miura) to drive him back and forth due to company protocol.

Over the course of Drive My Car’s imposing yet effortless runtime, Hamaguchi slowly and gradually unfolds profound layers that sneak up on the viewer until they beautifully click together. It’s remarkably patient and languid in its pacing, allowing for Hamaguchi to revel in small details and conversations. Yusuke’s car, an instantly distinct bright-red Saab, becomes the center of the film. On rides to work, Yusuke has Misaki play Oto’s cassette of Uncle Vanya, with Misaki initially staying silent as she drives. But as the film progresses, they begin to open up more to each other. The car becomes more than just a means of transportation; it becomes a refuge and haven of sorts, a place where its passengers can be vulnerable, a vessel for shared grief and trauma. As Yusuke lets out his feelings about his loss, Misaki reveals details about her past, and her own experiences with grief and guilt.

With Drive My Car, Hamaguchi is going for big themes, but he isn’t going for big emotions. What makes the film so rewarding is how beautifully understated it all is. Hamaguchi wisely lets the dynamic between Yusuke and Misaki simmer and build slowly, so that the moments of catharsis land with all the more impact. The film’s emotional gut punches are handled not with showiness, but with a quiet grace and elegance, such as a detour atop a snowy hill that’s among the most astounding and cathartic scenes I’ve seen in any movie. Hamaguchi’s direction is minimal and pared-down, allowing his central performances to be at the forefront, and it’s all the more effective as a result. It’s a film where silences and stillness speak just as loudly as words. And it’s this minimalistic approach that makes the film so much more impactful, as Hamaguchi applies an assured grace to the film’s heavy ideas.

In addition to the core themes of coming to terms with the loss of those close to us, Drive My Car contains all kinds of layers to dig into. One theme Hamaguchi explores is language as a form of connection; the Vanya production is multilingual, including a Korean actress (Park Yu-rim) who communicates in sign language (her scenes include some of the most poignant in the film). Or there’s also the theme of how storytelling can serve as a connective tool; what the multilingual Vanya production shows is that a story can connect across several language barriers, with the emotion dominating over the words. But ultimately, I find Drive My Car to be a tough film to write about; I feel as though this review almost doesn’t properly represent the full extent to which I resonated with it. It’s a film that speaks for itself in many ways, slowly and subtly unraveling its wonders with a patience that’s rare to come across these days. It’s such a quiet and assured film, and yet I felt as though I’d been hit by a semi-truck when it was over. What a stunner.