LOST IN TRANSLATION
There were bigger films in 2003 — this was the year of Finding Nemo and The Return Of The King — and those more garlanded, the final Lord Of The Rings film winning a whopping 11 Oscars. but while in January of that year, if you were to overhear film connoisseurs discussing Coppola or Scarlett they likely meant Francis Ford or O’hara, come December, chances are they’d be referring to Sofia or Johansson.
Lost In Translation is a film both timeless and deeply of its time. A vignette on loneliness and the craving for genuine connection, it was released just two months after the launch of Myspace in August 2003, arguably the gateway to this newfangled thing, ‘social media’. You’ll see no smartphones on the bar at the Park hyatt, Tokyo — this is a film whose characters communicate largely face-to-face, and if not, via the media of calls, faxes and notes under the door. it’s fair to say that on paper not a great deal occurs — if it were to be released today you can imagine somebody tweeting, “IT’S SO boring NOTHING HAPPENS” — and yet what does transpire is, if you are of a romantic or exisistential bent, nothing short of momentous.
Tracing the burgeoning relationship between two lost — the word comes up several times, not just in the title — individuals (and it’s noteworthy that they don’t speak to each other until 32 minutes into the film, a third of the way through), this is a film as much about rediscovering yourself as meeting your soulmate. Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) and bob (bill Murray) are looking at life from opposite perspectives — he’s a married movie star past his prime, she’s a young woman drifting as she tries to figure out how to do life — but united in their sense of emotional anaesthesia. “i didn’t feel anything,” weeps Charlotte to unmoved friend Lauren after watching monks chant at a shrine. both staying in the Tokyo hyatt for a week — he to make commercials for Suntory whisky, she accompanying her photographer husband while he’s on a shoot — their relationship unfolds delicately, from a smile in the lift, to crazy nights out in the hectic playground of downtown Tokyo, to a miserable lunch where, having had an almighty bust-up, the strength of their awakened feelings becomes inescapably clear.
Sofia Coppola — making only her second film, after The Virgin Suicides — explores the beautiful mystery of human love and communion in a fever dream of neon lights and woozy visuals, set to an ethereal pop music score from the likes of Air and Phoenix, and it’s utterly beguiling. And then, of course, there is that final scene, when bob jumps from his airportbound taxi, follows Charlotte down the street, turns her tear-strewn face to his and whispers in her ear. “what DID he SAY TO her?” the Twitterverse would fret. well, so we did in 2003 as well, but to no avail. As bill Murray said himself when asked: “it’s between lovers.” Private. Not for public consumption. imagine that in 2019.
Coppola would go on to hone her elegant skills with the punk party of Marie Antoinette and near-wordless reverie of Somewhere. Johansson would become one of hollywood’s A-list, not to mention black widow. Murray would happily just carry on being Murray. And this small indie mood-piece will arguably remain the brightest moment in each of their storied careers.