Lost in Translation
(2003)
review by Head Cheeze

Go ahead! Call me a wussy boy! I went to see a chick flick! Bah! I've heard it all before, baby, and it's like rain on well oiled leather; Beads right up and rolls the fuck off. I like Bill Murray, damnit, and I wanted to see this film. This was a complete non-chick issue! Even Head Cheeze needs a break from the blood, my friends!

When I dragged my fiance (who, for your information, would much rather we'd seen Underworld to that point. A fan of the chick-flick she is not) into the artsy fartsy theater we noticed a sea of middle-aged couples, socks-in-sandles, with knee high khakis as far as the eye could see. The wait for the film proved excructiating. There were conversations about everything from colon cancer to the highest gains at the stock market floating about, and all I could think was "Wow, so this is art-house?"

Finally, the lights dimmed, and, lo and behold, we were treated to a Pepsi commercial. You'd think that these sorts of things were reserved for the Fast and the Furious crowds, but you'd be wrong. This one featured Beyonce Knowles, who would be really pretty if she didn't have a thicker growth of hair on her lip than my Italian great grandmother, but I digress.

The trailers rolled, and we were treated to a trio of previews for films I will never see, including one that looked like it took place in someone's bathroom for the entire film. Artsy? Perhaps. Boring? Most definitely. Oh, we also saw a trailer for Mystic River, Clint Eastwood's latest directorial venture, which is supposed to be about a murder in Boston, but looks to be more about Sean Penn crying and doing his best DeNiro impersonation. That will be one I'll wait for until it's inevitable showing on the Sundance Channel next month, bookended, most likely, by The Horse Whisperer and some Merchant Ivory flick about a candlemaker and his discovery of love against the backdrop of the Spanish Inquisition.

Ahh, yes. Our feature presentation.

The film opens with a haunting beat as we see a very disenchanted Bill Murray peering out of his cab window at the spectacle that is Tokyo. Murray plays Bob Harris, an American actor whose career is on the skids at home, but is still iconic in Japan. Harris is in town to film a series of commercials for a Japanese Scotch, do a few interviews, and, basically, earn a massive payday for doing next to nothing. Harris would still rather be home, on stage somewhere, making art, but he has a wife and children who have grown so accustomed to living the movie star lifestyle that his duty is to them, even if it flies in the face of his own beliefs.

At the same hotel in which Harris is staying, a young newlywed named Charlotte (Johansson) has tagged along with her photographer hubby, John (Giovanni Ribisi) while he is on assignment taking promotional photos for a rock band. John's so wrapped up in his work that he pretty much abandons Charlotte for hours on end, leaving her to walk the streets of the city in search of not only something to do, but of herself as well.

When Charlotte and Bob's paths cross, it's Bob who takes notice of the gorgeous young American, but, at his age, he's also well aware that she's well out of his league. Not that Bob wants to cheat on his wife; although her faxes and messages to him show us that there is little, if any, love left in that relationship. Bob is just....lonely. When a young and vaccuous American movie star (played with perfection by Anna Farris, and based on Cameron Diaz, reportedly) arrives to promote her latest film, she wrangles John away from Charlotte in hopes he will document her stay. John, starfucker that he is, is happy to oblige, and leaves Charlotte for a weekend. When Charlotte and Bob cross paths again, the pair have a witty retort which leads to an invite from Charlotte for Bob to take in the Tokyo night-life with some of her Japanese friends. It's here that we see Bob come to life. The infusion of utter joy he gets from Charlotte's company is akin to a dip in the fountain of youth. They drink, sing Karaoke, get high with hippies, and, eventually, fall madly in like.

Oh, and all of this happens with nary a single May/December cliche'.

Sofia Coppola's film could have easily copped out and had Bob and Charlotte be in bed with each other from frame one, however, the only time they share a bed, the two are fully clothed, drinking Saki, and watching dubbed gangster movies while discussing life. Charlotte asks Bob if it gets any easier. He assures her it does. However, when the talk switches to marriage, Bob has no easy answers. They are both clearly unhappy in their relationships, but, instead of falling into each others arms, they fall into each others own soft pillow of moral support. It's a beautiful, realistic, and stunningly touching tale of friendship in the least likeliest of places.

I absolutelty loved this film, and, as I type this, I feel goosebumps building at the base of my neck as I recall these indelible images Coppala has firmly entrenched in my mind. We see Tokyo, the loud, insanely bright city, as something between funhouse and madhouse, but as Charlotte ventures into it's outskirts, we see the proud tradition that is the backbone of Japanese culture. It's a beautiful juxtaposition that's symbolic of Charlotte's own fate. She's in a whirlwind relationship with a man who clearly loves her, as we see in their quiet moments together, but also lives the rock star dream, however vicariously.To Charlotte, John is the bustling energy of Tokyo, while the more staid and secure Bob is it's quite, gentle outskirts.

Bob, meanwhile, has a marriage of convenience; one that's seen the excitement of being in-love fade with time, and become replaced with a sense of solemn responsibility. Here he is, halfway across the world, and all that his wife can do is send him demanding faxes regarding the shade of carpeting he'd like for his study. As the two engage in a rather terse conversation, Bob mutters a pleading "I Love You" as we clearly hear the phone disconnect on the other end. He sinks into his tub with hopelessness married with a sense of resolve. He's not going to give up, but he's seen better days.

As his relationship with Charlotte seems to gather a sense of seriousness, Bob backs off by spending the night with a trashy lounge singer. I don't view this as so much of a slight against his wife, but more of a move to protect his wife from the very real possibility that he could fall in love with this young woman. The lounge singer serves as a sort of emotional kevlar vest, and, when Charlotte discovers Bob's transgression, we see the expression on her face justifies Bob's actions. She was falling for him as well. It's a bittersweet moment when the two meet again, and the immature Charlotte digs at Bob about his night with the singer. She may think she's being funny, making light of the situation with comments about Bob's age, and taste in women, but she is quite obviously hurt, and Bob is as well. He's succeeded in deflecting Cupid's arrow, however much he wanted to take it square in the chest. It's better for her, better for his family, but is it better for him? No. It's a selfless act in which he has now betrayed two woman who mean a great deal to him, but only, in a skewed way, to protect them.

Lost in Translation is easily the best film of 2003. It's funny, heartwarming, and expertly made stuff. Coppala has certainly come into her own with this one, and I have to say I'm well impressed. It's the type of film that you carry with you for weeks, perhaps months, after seeing it, with stand out moments that you may reflect on for years. Murray is absolutely flawless as Bob Harris, managing to be funny in that effortless way that is being Bill Murray, but also showing a vulnerability that was first hinted at in the brilliant Rushmore. There's a moment of realisation in the film in which we see Murray's hang-dog mug seemingly melt before our eyes. You can see the tears welling behind that comic facade, and, while he may be too exhausted to shed a single one, my eyes welled up with a strange feeling of both sadness and pride in his character's sacrifice.

Equally enchanting is the performance by 19 year old ingenue, Johansson, whose, quite simply, stunning. She spends much of the film wandering about with a sort of malaise, but literally lights up the screen with an arch of the brow or self-conscious smile. Her performance has recieved as many raves as Murray's, and this gal's not even 20 years old. Expect great things from this one.

Basically, I loved Lost in Translation. It's the kind of film that makes you want to step into the screen and enter it's world. A rare and magical treat indeed.