Tokyo Uber Blues

Shot in the first-person mode of the Japanese ‘self-documentary’ sub-genre, Tokyo Uber Blues follows aspiring filmmaker Taku Aoyagi as he switches from his job as driver for Tokyo residents who can’t get behind the wheel after a hard night’s drinking, to becoming an Uber Eats driver during the pandemic. With filmmaking as a source of income looking like a pipe dream, he wonders if signing up to Uber might be more profitable. In 2023, it might seem easier to predict where this gamble might end, but in 2020, when Uber delivery drivers were not yet a fixture of city streets the world over, it’s easy to see why it might still be a chance worth taking, especially when lacking so few other options. But Tokyo Uber Blues, even with Aoyagi’s likeable air of ironic resignation, should give anyone considering delivery driving an easy way to make a wage pause for thought.

One of Aoyagi’s frequent laments is the loneliness of the job. At one point he howls about the solitary nature of the work, remarking how he hoped it would create connections with others at a time when city streets still lie mostly empty. But as he deposits umpteen food containers in front of customers’ closed doors, it becomes clear this isn’t the job to forge bonds with your fellow human, whether customer, restaurant owner, or even fellow driver. It might have been illuminating to learn how other drivers felt about the work, but apart from a short run-in with some delivery driver hopefuls from Osaka who hope to score in Tokyo, Aoyagi’s camera doesn’t encounter others doing the same job.

It could be because there is so little time. Some of the most captivating sequences are those of our intrepid driver speeding from one address to another. Even as he questions whether it is worth having to race so fast and so far, to ensure someone can have their bubble tea without leaving home, he simultaneously commits himself to the task with complete dedication, determined to make a decent total at the end of the day, even if the figure is unpredictable.

The film is capped off with a climatic, desperate hurtle through night-time Tokyo where, as he races against the clock to land a bonus payment, now ragged, unshaven, and fatigued, he starts to appear delirious, but ever more desperate to make that delivery, as if it’s the last stage in a gruelling video game.

Throughout, the film also doubles as a document of the pandemic, and sometimes a send-up of the instructions given to residents and the Japanese government’s announcements declaring their success in countering the virus. All the while, Aoyagi threads through his commentary on the competitiveness of casual work (“we are hyenas”), precarious employment (“if I leave, someone will take my place”), and the corporate, global might of companies like Uber.

As its wryer, original title Tokyo Bicycle Festival suggests, Aoyagi’s film is never heavy-handed. Nor is it defeatist or dogmatic. Like Hiroki Iwabuchi’s A Permanent Part-Timer In Distress, another film by an aspiring filmmaker caught up in the gig economy’s trawler net, it shines a sincere light on the modern working conditions affecting many, from the inside out.