Inspired by Saudi writer-director-producer Ahd Kamel’s childhood, the nostalgic coming-of-age story “My Driver & I” unfolds against the backdrop of Jeddah in the 1980s and ’90s and traces the relationship of a rebellious girl and the Sudanese chauffeur her affluent family hires as a driver. A more conventional-looking and less compelling watch than “Wadjda” (2012), the Saudi picture to which it is sure to be compared and in which Kamel played a key acting role, “Driver” lacks the convincing struggle against limitations depicted by director Haifaa Al Mansour’s earlier movie.
Indeed, where “Wadjda” was tart, “Driver” is over-sweet to the point of sentimentality. Despite some sad circumstances, just how easy and nice everything seems to be for the central family and their staff somewhat beggars belief. Nevertheless, further festival play is likely and the drama will disseminate widely in Arabic-speaking territories through Dubai-based pay TV and streaming service OSN+.
A bright, mischievous only child, Salma (Tarah Alhakeem as a girl, Roula Dakheelallah as a teen) grows up in a vast, well-appointed villa with a busy businessman father (Qusai Kheder) who indulges her with stacks of cassette tapes from his international travels and a strict, migraine-prone mother (Rana Aleemuddin), who is constantly raising money for Palestinian orphans. The family retainers, who live happily in an onsite servants’ quarters, include a couple of Sudanese drivers: Bakri (Amjad Abu Alala, the director of the festival hit “You Will Die at 20”), who has been with them for a long time, and the newly hired Gamar (Mustafa Shahata, the star of Abu Ala’s film and a sympathetic presence here).
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Gamar, who has left a wife and young daughter behind in Sudan, quickly takes to his sparky new charge and ultimately becomes her confidant, teacher, cheerleader and co-conspirator. When the youngster confesses that she wet her pants at school, he takes her out for an ice cream and makes a “pinky promise” that he will one day teach her to drive. That pledge and the shared dessert become motifs of their relationship that reoccur throughout the film.
About 20 minutes in, the action jumps forward some 10 years. Even though women are not allowed to drive in Saudi Arabia, Salma pesters Gamar into teaching her and letting her take the wheel in a remote vacant lot. Their secret, of which her parents would surely disprove, further cements their bond. But when things go wrong, it’s Gamar who has to pay the price; yet he doesn’t betray Salma’s trust.
Gamar, who takes his responsibility to Salma seriously, to the point of acting in loco parentis, has been putting off visiting his own family in Sudan, although he continues to send them presents and cassette tapes. Even though Salma’s father offers him extra time off and to arrange his ticket, he prefers to stay at her beck and call until she graduates from high school.
Although the screenplay frequently over-burdens the dialogue with exposition, especially early on, it also allows some visual insight into the social and political restrictions that stand in the way of teens such as Salma meeting and mingling with the opposite sex. In one striking scene, Salma persuades Gamar to stop at a trendy ice cream parlor on their way home from school. As she demurely waits in the female line, she casts dimpled glances at the attractive Waleeb (Mishaal Tamer) in the male line opposite. When they meet at counter, he slips her his phone number.
Salma and Waleeb connect over their shared interest in Western music and talk on the telephone until Gamar tries to shut down the relationship, feeling that it is his job to preserve her modesty and reputation. Later, after she has assured Gamar that she is no longer meeting Waleeb, he discovers them in a chaste but compromising situation. Angry at his interference, Salma utters some cruel and hurtful words.
Kamel’s film represents both an apology and an homage to the man who provided a steady and steadying influence in her life. The dignified Shahata makes a strong impression as the driver who comes to painfully understand that raising a child who isn’t yours is like cultivating land that you don’t own. Meanwhile, both of the gap-toothed young actresses who play Salma twinkle becomingly onscreen. The tech side is surprisingly unremarkable, with the visuals by the normally more nuanced DP Frida Marzouk providing a bright, digitald look.