Lost In Translation

Sofia Coppola's ‘Lost in Translation' (2004) delicately portrays a unique human connection, a neo-gothic holiday tryst between Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) - a confused young ingénue - and Bob Harris (Bill Murray) - a cynical aging actor. What makes this unlikely coupling especially poignant, is the aura of isolation, estrangement and solitude that surrounds them both. From the drifting Tokyo 'Dream Pop', a contemporary way of tapping into Proust's 'little memory', that guides us into the modern fairy tale opening, as the camera pans across a sleeping (dreaming) Charlotte's derriere; to the intensely private whisper that ends both the film and the relationship, we are privy to a connection whose intensity is attributable to the liberating frankness of chance encounters. As Coppola herself said of the portrayal, '[I have had] brief encounters where you know someone for a few days and it seems you have had a whole lifetime, and it shapes who you are as a person.’ With ‘Lost in Translation', an extremely personal film, for which Coppola drew on experiences from her failing marriage to director Spike Jonze, her paranoia at Japanese press conferences and the loneliness inherent in solitary travel. She is aware that in a world where long term relationships requiring duty and sacrifice are at odds with the selfish and heady romance of love in a liquid age, we feel that we are missing out and new psychological theory and increasing divorce rates convince us that a constant partner is unrealistic in a shifting life, and that consistency offers little excitement. We very often feel bewildered and at odds with a world that has advanced technologically and thus dissolved traditional values and philosophies, rendering them useless in a fug of post-modernism. With these ideas at the helm of the plot, Coppola manages to coax a story of genuine warmth from the cold, pseudo-futurist Tokyo setting. Portraying such a simple yet complex connection is executed perfectly by Coppola's aping of Italian cinema, by showing the spaces surrounding it and the quiet desperation out of which it is borne, rather than choosing to focus wholly on the introspective world of the new couple. Using a fluid scenario such as a holiday (which has a definite end point) and referring to characters on the periphery (Bob's wife, whom we never see and Charlotte's husband, who appears fleetingly) is ideal for deconstructing their personalities and re-inventing them in a kind of safety zone of hyperrealism.

Bob and Charlotte only overcome their loneliness through fraught, chaste, and fleeting encounters with each other, and yet they cannot communicate with their partners. They are both attempting to unchain the bonds of societal restrictions, the illusion of freedom exacerbated by the giddy excitement of a new environment and chance encounters. It is within this sense of freedom that their relationship is doomed. They cannot continue this relationship as it exists within a specific time frame and mood, but they only speak in platitudes with their supposed loved ones. When Bob tries to connect with his wife as he talks to her on speakerphone in a sauna, telling her 'I want to be healthy, I want to eat more sushi.’ she berates him as being childish saying 'Well eat more sushi then'. Hers is the real world, his is the fantasy from which he must return, and her presence reminds him of this ominous ending. Charlotte, meanwhile, has a more tangible relationship with her husband (she also has friends in Tokyo so she has a more established reality within the story), but there are signs that all is not well when she cries on the phone to her sister 'And John (Giovanni Ribisi) has this new hair gel...’ she cannot even communicate with him about this minute gripe. There is suggestion that beyond the end of the film these characters lives will change, but perhaps it is symptomatic of a society where on the one hand human connection is facilitated (through technological means and ease of human interaction in nightclubs and bars) and yet hindered at its most crucial, when there are real issues to be dealt with, when the issue causes long term problems or when we are so engrossed in the idea of love that it leaves us floundering and inept when things go wrong.

There is an ever-increasing arsenal of items that promise us intimate human contact from wherever we are. These items not only lack actual human contact and present us with a disembodied idea of a loved one, but by their silence and inactivity they can heighten the loneliness they seek to eradicate. Faxes spew out banal reminders about carpet swatches in the early hours of the morning, emphasizing distance and jet-lagged perception, long distance telephone conversations between Charlotte and her sister indicate stilted relations and fail to inspire comfort. The apparatuses of a technological society are to maintain the dominant order and streamline our experience, but in reality, they increase the sense of loss, that we are out of the loop and creates a stunted perspective of what is real as it fluctuates before our eyes.

Tokyo is particularly affected by the satellization of the modern world. Hotel rooms are capsules tailored to human needs, a homogenized, sanitized space with a myriad of services at the end of a phone, except that of genuine human contact. Charlotte vainly tries to personalise the space she is in by decorating with paper lanterns. At the beginning of the film, it appears that Charlotte is imprisoned in a static narrative. The panoramic views from the room (associated with luxury hotels such as Tokyo's 'Park Hyatt) only seem to confirm her captivity by glimpsing the exotic potential of the city below. In ‘Simulacra and Simulacrum' Baudrillard talks of malls and hypermarkets as satellitized spaces, conflictingly designed to facilitate human interaction, and yet physically removed from human contact, built in desolate industrial areas, wholly adherent to rules of capitalist commerce and designed with clinical machination in glass, steel, chrome, and plastic. The hyper-modern Tokyo is represented similarly, with views of a strange neon city with incomprehensible signs and sky-scraping futurist buildings are lingered on, through windows of the hotel room and a taxicab. Moments of contemplative silence of neon cityscapes reference directors such as Antonioni (for example ‘L'Avventura' (1960)) and Fellini where humans are contrasted against overwhelming modernist landscapes. The one sightseeing trip where Charlotte watches a traditional Japanese wedding is frustrated by the phone call to her sister where she tells her she feels nothing. However, the landscape is not entirely devoid of potential. The dark, marble corridors of the Park Hyatt are narrow, but this enables chance encounters; and the open space of the bar with its communal benches creates an opening dialogue for Charlotte and Bob.

The language barrier is superbly represented; Coppola uses subtle visual wit to show the sense of bewilderment a foreign country can cause. Charlotte stares at a highly confusing subway map with no English clues, at a restaurant Charlotte stares at a menu (with pictures added in order to help tourists comprehend) stating wryly 'They all look the same' and when she hurts her foot as Bob wheels her into the hospital the 'Engrished' sign leaves him to suggest 'Let's try mixed organs'.

Dialogue wise, accusations of casual racism aside, the lack of connection is less subtle as a prostitute sent to Bob's room thoroughly confuses him with the request to 'Lip' her stockings and the commercial he is doing for the 'Santory' whisky company is directly taken from Coppola's interview experiences where lengthy questions are translated into two words. It is no surprise that Coppola chose an atypically, blonde, blue-eyed American, Coppola could have chosen someone more like herself, and she even goes so far as to contrast Charlotte with a more stereotypical ditzy, American blonde. Charlotte and Bob are visual sore thumbs, Bob towers over the typically short Japanese (a particularly charming shot shows his feet squeezed into a tiny pair of hotel slippers) and Charlotte's blonde hair enables him to spy her in a sea of dark-haired heads from his taxi, as he leaves. They are anchors of normality for Western audiences, spyglasses through which to view a Western perspective of a notoriously quirky city.

Japan is the last bastion of globalisation; although commercially westernized, there is a fascinating overwriting of ongoing tradition, which infuses a uniquely Asian flavour into Western institutions (for example the Japanese McDonalds serves green tea milkshakes and a 'Koroke' burger made of cabbage, fish and katsui sauce instead of a Big Mac). Coppola portrays this using the Japanese fascination with karaoke (where her real-life friend sings the Sex Pistols ‘God Save the Queen') and through the iconography of tourism - architecture, food, strip-clubs, clothing, shopping and transportation. Having the comforts of home re-invented abroad can provide fresh experiences but can also increase any sense of rupture and discomfort we feel at being displaced. Bob and Charlotte use these experiences to connect further and bond over their twin confusion, but Coppola also shows moments of weakness where the travellers are worn out by the excesses of their new-found playground and they instead turn to each other for familiarity.

In his book ‘Authenticity', David Boyle talks about the new Realist movement who rebel against a homogenized world by re-instating tradition; for example, buying organic food, buying unbranded vintage clothing, or staying in family run boutique hotels. Even though we are watching a film and the story is a fairy tale (possibly opening a dialogue where loneliness transcends the screen due to the audience's lack of interaction), Bob and Charlotte's relationship is a beacon of authenticity in the film. Boyle describes the Realist movement as one that means that the full complexity of people are recognised, that their need for human contact is recognised, that their uniqueness and individuality is recognised too.' and the relationship affirms this. The relationship gives the film its quirky soul, but to make it believable, Coppola had to balance it with banality, commercialization and even the return to a lonely situation (an extremely gothic trait within the film, denoted by Charlotte's quietly desperate tears as Bob leaves). Loneliness is a natural state, an audience can empathize with disconnection and solitude more so than with an epic love story; an audience can also relate to briefly life affirming random encounters. The subtle contrast of one state with the other, without resorting to melodrama, is key to the film's success. Best embodied in the low-key ending, the two lovers let their affair run its course and then accept that they have to go back to their lives, silence and a muffled whisper is used to create a devastatingly dignified acceptance of the situation as it is. There are no histrionics, no mention of elopement or promises made, as in a typically Hollywood ending, Bob simply returns to his taxi, and Charlotte simply continues sightseeing.

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Country: USA/Japan
Budget: £2,000,000
Length: 102mins

Filmography:
‘L'Avventura', 1960, Michelangelo Antonioni, Cino del Duca

Pub/2008

More like this:
'Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind', 2004, directed by Michel Gondry
'Dreamland', 2006, directed by Jason Matzner
'Chung Hing sam lam (Chungking Express)', 1994, directed by Wong Kar-Wai