Over 70 years after George Orwell’s seminal classic 1984 was published, the estate of the renowned novelist and essayist asked American author Sandra Newman to revisit the text through the perspective of Julia, the romantic partner of the novel’s protagonist. The aptly-titled Julia stands as a wonderful example of how derivative art can prevail and offers an answer to a long-standing question in literary circles: why on Earth was Julia ever interested in Winston?
Separate from the substance of the book itself, though, Julia gives voice to a missing perspective in a story rich in world-building and tactile experience. It’s safe to assume that the reason Orwell never gave an explanation as to why Julia became entangled with Winston is because to him, it didn’t matter. Julia simply existed as a foil to Winston — the character whose story Orwell wanted to tell.
Given the societal and cultural shifts achieved around the world, these alternative-perspective takes on classic novels can not only give voice to those historically muted, but if done well, elevate the original work.
Haruki Murakami has never been accused of being a feminist. I’d go as far as to say that his writing can be safely described as misogynistic, reflecting the viewpoint of a generation of Japanese men (broadly speaking, of course), making his short story collection Men Without Women, a particularly interesting piece of Murakami’s bibliography.
Compiled of seven short stories, the collection considers the lives of men who have lost women whether through death, affairs, or both. One of these stories, “Drive My Car,” was adapted into a film (ironically stretching across a 3-hour runtime) by writer-director Ryusuke Hamaguchi, which received critical acclaim in Japan and around the world, winning Best International Feature Film at the Academy Awards in 2022.
Murakami’s taut story, translated into English by Philip Gabriel and Ted Goossen, centres around a widowed actor, Kafuku, and his chauffeur, a young woman named Misaki Watari. Kafuku, having been sidelined from the driving world due to a DUI and sight issues, turns to his mechanic, Oba, to recommend him a personal driver. After Misaki’s name is mentioned, Murakami writes, Kafuku looked less than thrilled.
Yeah, I know how you feel, the mechanic’s face said.
“But she’s one heck of a driver.”
Murakami’s description of Misaki, as Oba relays it to Kafuku, continues:
“Well, how should I put this, she’s not exactly the congenial type.”
“In what way?”
“She’s brusque, shoots from the hip when she talks, which isn’t often. And she smokes like a chimney,” Oba said. “You’ll see for yourself when you meet her, but she’s not what you’d call cute, either. Almost never smiles, and she’s a bit homely, to be honest.”
“That’s not a problem. I’d feel uncomfortable if she were too pretty, and there could be nasty rumours.”
In fact, much of Misaki’s literary descriptions surround her appearance (“It’s because I was born ugly that he abandoned us”) and Kafuku’s approval of her taciturn demeanour (He liked her smooth and assured driving, her lack of chatter, and the way she kept her feelings to herself).
Over the course of the story, Kafuku gives his stamp of approval on Misaki’s driving skills and as their relationship grows, he uses her as a sounding board for his problems.
It’s revealed that Kafuku’s wife’s death from cancer continues to haunt him. Not so much her absence, but in the unasked and unanswered questions surrounding her multiple infidelities. Kafuku ponders why his wife stepped out on him, and also why he never confronted her given the otherwise seemingly healthy marriage they once had.
Misaki’s role in the story is similar to that of Julia’s in 1984: a diving board for the protagonist’s story — nothing more, nothing less. Bits of Misaki’s backstory are described, particularly her growing up in Hokkaido as a way of explaining how she came to be such a skilled driver, that her mother died driving drunk when Misaki was 17 years old, and how her father abandoned the family when she was a young girl, a departure Misaki’s mother blamed her for.
In his film, Hamaguchi colours Misaki’s backstory differently to Murakami. Rather than losing her mother to a self-inflicted accident, it’s Misaki who claims responsibility for her mother’s death through omission, leaving her with a facial scar as a penance for her daughterly betrayal. While the vast majority of the movie resides with Kafuku, by story’s end a shift occurs where we realize we’ve actually been watching Misaki’s story unfold instead. Indeed, the emotional climax of the film belongs to Misaki not Kafuku when we visit Hokkaido and the site of Misaki’s mother’s death.
In contrast, Murakami’s story alternatively concludes with Kafuku being granted the catharsis through an explanation Misaki offers to him about his late wife’s exploits: “Isn’t it possible that your wife didn’t fall for him at all?” Misaki said simply. “And that’s why she slept with him?”
On this note, there’s a subtle, yet poignant, change made in the film. Instead of Misaki positing an option for Kafuku where his wife’s decision rests on her lack of connection or care for another man, which arguably feeds and soothes Kafuku’s battle-worn ego, Misaki presents a simple solution: there’s no dark mystery; his wife was a genuine human and her affairs were simply a part of who she was.
Would it be hard for you to accept her, everything about her, as genuine? Maybe there was nothing mysterious about her. Would it be hard to think that she was simply like that? That she loved you dearly and that she sought other men constantly don’t seem to contradict each other or sound deceptive to me. Is that strange?
Where Murakami presents stories of grief, Hamaguchi truly seeks to understand its complexities. Through navigating Misaki’s own grief and burden, her insight into Kafuku’s struggle proffers more weight. It’s through the completeness of Misaki that Kafuku’s journey becomes elevated and transformed into a meditation on life as a whole, rather than one aspect of it.
Nearly 30 years separates Murakami and Hamaguchi and in that time the political status of women in Japan changed greatly. Murakami grew up in a post-war Japan, where the country’s surrender haunted the returning soldiers and nation as a whole. Hamaguchi on the other hand came of age during a revival period in the country, one where legislation to ensure women’s equality to men in the workplace, including protection against discrimination, was enacted, a time when Japan was attempting to shed the archaic ideals of the past.
It’s no wonder then that their works vary so greatly in their treatment of women and the validity of the female experience. Murakami sees it as a punchline and as a reason for a man to gain some higher state of being, while Hamaguchi understands that through our differences, a fuller, more entangled and interesting exploration can be achieved — is that so strange?
