Lost in Translation. This is a film I recently ranked as the third best film of its respective decade. Sometimes, depending on my mood, it is absolutely number one. It is a masterpiece but first, a story.
It was late September of 2003 and temperatures were cooling off in the evenings as my wife and I loved. To this very day, autumn is still our favorite time of year. We were in the city for a couple days to celebrate her birthday. My wife had recently given up her apartment in the city in order to move about an hour north and marry me. This sacrifice on her part has never been lost on me and we would continue to make frequent trips back to the city. This particular weekend, I had secured tickets to see Wicked on broadway (even more lucky to see the show when Idina Menzel was still Elphaba). We had purchased a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to celebrate and after a satisfying dinner and wonderful broadway show, we felt this evening still held more treasure. Going into the weekend, we knew that Sofia Coppola’s new film had recently opened in New York and it was already on the docket. I had seen The Virgin Suicides and was a fan of Coppola thus far and we both considered Bill Murray our favorite actor (still true for both of us) — a can’t miss proposition. The decision was made to catch the late show at Lincoln Square but what to do with the champagne? My wife made a quick, executive decision as she grabbed two empty coke bottles, rinsed them out, filled them with the champagne and then hid them in her purse. Off we went. I still think of this night often, the two of us, still young and recently married, sitting alone in that balcony watching absolute magic on screen. The entire night was something out of a storybook and I still consider it one of the very best nights of my life.
What we understood about that night and subsequently, the many nights that would follow, is that none of them last — not the great ones, the merely good ones, or even the bad ones. We’re left with the memories that help shape the future we’ve yet to see. It’s up to us to hold on to the special moments without dwelling and use them as fuel to propel us forward.
Onward to the film.
Coppola opens on Charlotte in bed, alone without being alone. This sets an early tone for the story she is going to tell us. We quickly move on to Bob, arriving in Tokyo, jet lagged and being jettisoned through the neon lit streets and on to the hotel. Murray’s face is telling us his story without a word. We see the exhaustion, both mental and emotional. He is a man at sea and the lights catch him off guard for a moment before he allows them in to further confound himself. It strikes the viewer within moments that there was no other actor on this planet that could have portrayed Bob with the precision of Murray. Bob is awash in a never ending sea of neon while being so desperate for rest. Coppola adds in ethereal synth-infused pop songs, at once dreary and peppy, further complicating matters. Music plays such an important role in this film by providing peeks inside the characters in certain moments. I love filmmakers who have a firm grasp over how music relates to our moods and daily lives. Sofia Coppola is one of these filmmakers and she infuses her films with music that feels like it came from the page of a diary. The film carries on switching between Bob’s and Charlotte’s independent lives. Thus far, we’re seeing separate stories from two different people who are both searching for their place in this world. What connects them to us is they both suffer from a near paralyzing bout of loneliness. Bob is at the end of his career and wishing to feel needed or wanted again. Charlotte has yet to begin her career and she’s restless while waiting for her husband to take an interest in her that could come close to matching his interest in his own work.
The film builds on these feelings while infusing everything with little bits of humor. There are so many minor annoyances experienced by Bob, adding to his insomnia. He’s also the butt of nearly every early joke as he struggles to understand this new language and culture. His commercial shoots both go hilariously off the rails. The hotel concierge mistakes his request for a masseuse to mean a prostitute. The jacket clips on the back of his tuxedo which we see he’s still wearing while trying to look cool at the bar. Bob’s futile exercise attempt that nearly kills him and leads him to walk with a limp for the next few scenes. This provides levity for us because Charlotte’s story is one emotional hit after the other. Her husband is obsessed with everyone and everything else other than her. It hurts us to watch him act like a fool in front of a vapid actress and then admonish Charlotte for pointing out how stupid it all is. This leads to an awesome, cathartic moment where Bob and Charlotte first officially meet at the hotel bar. They both don’t belong there and they both not only know it but recognize it in each other. They are kindred spirits. This scene is perfection, right down to the opening conversation Bob is having with the bartender only to realize the guy hasn’t really been listening this entire time. From here, the film takes off like a rocket ship.
Both of these characters want to be wanted or, even better, needed. Bob is constantly reminded that he may be casually wanted by his wife but he is certainly not needed. Charlotte gets the same treatment, albeit a bit more cruelly ignorant, by her husband. She is calling out to him in a desperate attempt to save their relationship but he is too busy being wrapped up in his own shit to notice. Coppola lets these scenes breathe and infuses every single scene with wonderful, cutting dialog. Everyone is saying a million things at once. This is easily one of the best scripts of the past two decades — a simply marvelous feat. Finally, Bob and Charlotte break free of the hotel and their shackles to enjoy a night out in Tokyo with friends. This is when the neon and bustle of Tokyo becomes obvious and appealing. Their restlessness flakes away like beach sand on a windy day. They are alive again, we feel it as much as they do. It’s a flawless sequence. The evening ends in a karaoke bar where again, the music comes to the forefront as their choices are telling stories to each other. They’re coming clean and baring their souls. In particular, the scene where Bob and Charlotte are sitting outside of the karaoke room and sharing a cigarette is my favorite scene in the entire film. It contains a perfect shot that gives away the entire film in mere seconds. Exquisite.
This brings me to the title, Lost in Translation. It holds so many meanings. There are the obvious choices of language and culture. Bob has so many encounters with locals who either don’t understand him or him them. The culture is a shock to both of them. But the title refers to so much more than that. Both Bob and Charlotte are seeking understanding from the people they hold dearest. Their respective break downs in communication are sad and all too typical. Still, they try and they find that understanding in each other.
And the point Coppola is helping us arrive at is that living in the moment is life at its purest. We get these perfect moments — perfect mini lives. We will always have them. They don’t erase. They are there, always, in the lights and sounds and signs — in the smell of a city street, of tar, of fried food. Life carries us away but it is these moments that tether us to each other and this world. Embrace it all.
Next week, Marie Antoinette. Until then, love each other.
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