Sunday September 12, 2004

Lost In Translation

I put off watching this movie for as long as I could. And now I cannot get it out of my mind.

Recall that many months ago, February 29 to be exact, Lost In Translation was up against Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King for Best Picture, and Sophia Coppola was threatening to rob Peter Jackson of the Directing statue he had deserved since Fellowship of the Ring.

I was not going to give aid and comfort to the enemy -- and besides, Coppola was downright irritating in Godfather III, and I had no interest in seeing more of her work. It was off my radar.

Last week, flipping through the free On Demand movies on Comcast Digital, with nothing better to do (and with LOTR's Oscars safely in Peter Jackson's hairy hobbit hands), I started watching. I watched it again two nights later. And again last night.

I cannot get this movie out of my mind. I cannot get Bob and Charlotte out of my heart. Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson should be canonized for this flick, not just Oscared.

What it is about them that so touched me is hard to put my finger on. They are pure souls, literally innocents abroad. They are suffering, having failed to find meaning in that which should have given them meaning -- and yet given so many opportunities to give up and do the wrong thing, for the most part (remember that lounge singer!) they do not. They discover a friendship that transcends the difference in their ages and situations, a friendship that proves that blood is not always thicker than water, a friendship that shows the English language less well served by its one word for love than Greek is by its three.

There's a lot to chuckle at in this movie. Bill Murray was born for this role, and his "Suntory Time" video and photo shoots, his wrestling match with the "premium fantasy woman", even his workout with the demon-possessed elliptical cross-trainer, are comedy for the ages. But it is his care for Johansson, carrying her to her room and tucking her in as she's -- finally -- able to fall asleep, and his farewell to her, in the last seconds of the movie, that shine. As for Johansson, she's 19 years old. Till November. Must have been 17 or 18 when they made the movie. How can this be?! She is at once childlike in her innocence (karaoking Chrissie Hynde's "Brass in Pocket" in a pink wig; wandering from shrine to shrine, gazing -- the complete foreigner -- at the Japanese wedding) and mature in her kindness to her equally lost companion, watching over him, almost maternally, as he sleeps -- finally -- in the back seat of a cab. When he falls from grace, she forgives. She is hurt, but she does not judge.

Lots of people will hate this movie, I'm sure. Nothing much happens. The slapstick is lightly done, and really just for seasoning. (If you were expecting Stripes or Ghostbusters, you will be sorely disappointed.) Even the ending -- which I have rewound and rewatched over and over again -- doesn't answer the question which so begs an answer. If you need a clear answer, it will infuriate you. Turn up the volume all you want, freeze frames, read lips -- there is no answer. But there are true hearts, and there is true friendship, both of which transcend the need for translation.

Go see this flick. As many times as you can.

[GET IT]

(2004-09-12 16:16:10.0) Permalink Comments [7]