Flak Magazine: Review of Lost in Translation, 09-15-03

In a nutshell: How can a trip to Tokyo possibly live up to Lost in Translation's madcap, deeply poignant, culturally kaleidoscopic voyage? The film paints a dizzyingly elegant picture by constructing dozens of vivid, funny and discrete snapshots of Japanese culture — pop and classical — and stringing them together with a quietly poignant story of two deeply disoriented American visitors.

Lost in Translation is not a film that stars Bill Murray — it's a film built around Bill Murray the way a house by Frank Lloyd Wright hugs the land. Murray's weathered, ironic, deeply tired affect deftly rebounds off of manic Japanese talk shows, clanging pachinko machines, overly dramatic prostitutes, light-firing toy guns and a wife who obsessively FedExes him carpet samples.

Murray, long a comedic dreadnought, has in recent years come into his prime as a dramatic actor. In The Royal Tenenbaums, Murray had a lovely supporting role, playing a stolidly affectionate academic. A previous Wes Anderson film featured a similar Murray character, but with a bitter, possessive twist; he singlehandedly pushed Rushmore from a clever coming-of-age film into a nuanced comic jewel.

Lost in Translation may be the most effective utilization of Murray's talent to date; by wedding the deadpan comic impact of Groundhog Day with the pathos of Tenenbaums, writer/director Sofia Coppola has almost completely redeemed herself for the shame that her animatronic acting job brought to the Godfather franchise.

In fact, Coppola is an artist on the other side of the lens. She has an eye for framing sharply evocative settings and making masterfully tight cuts; her timing is absolutely exquisite. For a sophomore director (she also directed the thoroughly mixed-bag Virgin Suicides), she does a surprisingly mature job of weaving a slow, strange courtship story through a sometimes chaotic and often hilarious rendering of modern Japan.

It could be argued that some of film's Japanese color is overly broad, or even stereotypical. Japanophiles have seen the pachinko parlors before, and the overly solicitous corporate functionaries, and the neon towers of Tokyo. But these are part of Japan, just as cornfields, the Golden Gate Bridge and the crush of pedestrian traffic in Manhattan are part of America. Lost in Translation goes well beyond clichés; there are Japanese hipsters aplenty, a shabu shabu restaurant, a brief, thoughtful look at ikebana and a touchingly hilarious scene inside a Tokyo hospital that demonstrates the way humor can bridge the language gap.

Business is what brings Murray's character, a washed-up actor named Bob Harris, over from America. But while Harris is earning $2 million to endorse a mediocre brand of Japanese whiskey, fellow hotel resident Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) isn't doing much of anything. A philosophy major in search of a day job, she has tagged after her photographer husband (Giovanni Ribisi), who's on assignment to shoot a Japanese rock band.

The contrast between Charlotte and Bob greatly sweetens the film's story of a slow-burn friendship. Charlotte is young, smart, aimless and wondering how she ended up married to a somewhat lunkheaded starfucker. Harris is an actor at the sputtering end of his appeal, wresting one last score from the disintegrating remnants of his career while wondering how his 25-year marriage has turned so deeply loveless.

At the hotel piano bar, at Japanese house parties and in streets of Tokyo, Charlotte and Bob start to lean on one another for support. In a country where no one seems to be speaking their language — either emotionally or literally — they revel in each other's sympathy and support, becoming one another's oasis in a strange desert of neon and marble. It's not quite a love story, and it's not really a seduction; it's a slow mutual realization that the human need for companionship can be filled by unexpected people. It's also a study of how traveling several thousand miles beyond your own comfort zone can bring unexpected and powerful insights; there's nothing like being chased down a series of crowded Tokyo streets by a group of drunken partygoers to get you thinking outside the box.

— James Norton (jim@flakmag.com)