grief – [art]seen

Warning: Slight spoilers for the film’s exposition

Just yesterday, a few of my classmates and I went to see the premiere of Drive My Car (2021) in the State Theater. The Japanese film was directed by Ryusuke Hamaguchi and based on the short story of the same name by Haruki Murakami, whose works have been bestsellers within and outside of Japan.

I went into the film expecting a touching or tragic romance, the exposition of the film began to hint at the latter when the main character Yūsuke Kafuku (Hidetoshi Nishijima) walks in on his wife Oto Kafuku (Reika Kirishima), in the throes of passion with a young actor that she works with. I expected a dramatic confrontation between the husband and wife, but Yūsuke’s response to the incident is passive, as he simply walks away before Oto or the actor sees him.

Despite the cheating, their love appears genuine, as both of them are drawn together by the art of storytelling; he is a stage actor, and she is a writer for television dramas. However, the movie takes its turn from the romance as Oto soon passes, and Yūsuke fails to gain closure in regards to the relationship with his wife.

The second act begins when Yūsuke is hired a driver, the young Misaki Watari (Tôko Miura), when he takes a job to be a director for a stage play of Uncle Vanya. Their relationship starts with indifference towards each other yet progresses each time he requests Misaki to play the recording of his wife reciting lines from the play for him to practice with. Misaki has past grievances of her own and together she and Yūsuke help each other find closure with each of their dead family’s strange behaviors.

At first, Yūsuke did not want anyone other than him to drive his car, but he soon grows comfortable with Misaki’s driving and it is as if he has finally let go of that independent passivity that held him back from confronting his wife. This allows Misaki to reveal her trials of being raised by the abusive mother who she let die during a mudslide that collapsed her house. The comradery that the two find together is wonderfully developed without the need for overt displays as they simply build their trust in each other with each facet of information they release.

Being three hours long, the movie’s pacing is quite slow. The exposition itself took almost an hour to set up. However, if you have the patience and want to watch a film that touches your heart with a unique friendship, make sure to catch Drive My Car at the State Theater.

This Thursday, I attended Realm of the Dead, an installation at the School of Social Work. Comprised of more than 30 suitcases, Realm of the Dead is a reflection on tragedy, grief, and identity by Rogerio M. Pinto, a professor of Social Work at UofM.

The walk into the building was supplemented by a drumline performance, waking me up and welcoming me into a lobby where videos of the Rio Carnival played. I was handed a small, white, rectangular box with a letter and number denoting where I would be located once we moved downstairs. A suitcase full of wish ribbons lay open: curious, I peeked inside, and an usher offered to help me tie one around my wrist. The ribbons read “Realm of the Dead.”

When the performance was set to begin, the audience descended a set of stairs to the lower floor. The ritualistic feeling of moving down the stairs, down to the Realm of the Dead, accompanied by the drumline’s beat, felt sacred in a way. Hushed, the audience made their way to the suitcases, laid out in a grid. The artist, Rogerio M. Pinto, sat next to a doll in a suitcase casket, holding a rosary, murmuring inaudible words. The drumline came to a halt, the suitcases were opened to reveal insides filled with art, and Pinto began to tell his story.

“Emotional baggage—” Pinto explains. Many people in the world can fit all their belongings into one suitcase. Could you carry everything with you in one bag? How about one small box?

Pinto tells the story, in pieces, of the death of his baby sister Marilia. She was 3 when she was killed in a tragic accident. Pinto unfolds the effect of this tragedy on his family and his identities growing up. Both his words and the suitcases weave a deep exploration of grief in relation to gender, body, ethnicity, immigration, and class.

Throughout the exhibit, suitcases filled with small items asked each viewer to take the things that reminded them of someone or something they had lost. We would fill out boxes with these things, and at the end, there would be the option to keep it or to leave it in the Realm of the Dead, allowing it to become part of the exhibit. Moving through the exhibit, I felt my box grow slightly more full with the notes and items I had collected, but I also felt myself grow heavy. Listening to Pinto’s story of grief, remembering my own.

We keep the dead with us, in us. My mother passed away 2 years ago, leaving me feeling helpless and crushed. I am still grieving her. While this performance left me remembering this loss with a heavy heart, I found myself comforted by the reminder that a part of her is in me and always will be. I choose to carry her with me. I grieve. “My sweet sister, no longer here, no longer on Earth.” Pinto holds his hands to his chest. She lives on, he says, in him—”Can you see her?”

This exploration of grief through art and performance was so beautifully touching to me. I am thankful to Pinto for sharing his story, and in this way giving the audience a space to search their own losses. To honor the Realm of the Dead.

Tag: grief

REVIEW: Drive My Car