Lost in Translation

Love is a confusing thing.

It’s not this idyllic spotless attraction between two people with perfect teeth and styled hair like it is in the movies, nor is it something that can be controlled, manipulated, spun or even stopped. It exists independently, out on its own, as this silly little feeling you get when her eyes catch yours. And it is my experience that love controls us far more often than we control love.

And it can hurt, this love thing. It can send you from a day of long laughing walks to nights of quiet sobbing into your pillow, and then it can take you back again. Lately I’ve begun to think that because of love’s tendency to hurt, we try to control it, or even deny its existence. We’ll set up rules, boundaries and guidelines as to who we should and could love, and when that silly little feeling strikes, we strike it down in favour of making choices that seem safe and familiar, even if they are, in the end, loveless. We do it because there’s only so much hurt we can take.

Sofia Coppola’s Lost in Translation is a love story without movie love. It’s a marvellously acted, beautifully shot, tremendously scored film, but above all, it’s the sad reality the script reveals of people and love that truly makes it a special film. We’re told the story of Bob Harris, a Hollywood actor in the twilight of his career, and Charlotte, a young woman with a Philosophy degree who doesn’t know where she’s going in her marriage, and their week together in Japan. It’s a relationship that shouldn’t work — the age difference alone should have us gagging a little — but they have this innate chemistry. The sort of soft banter interspersed with soft glances and this sort of awkward shared knowledge that, at any given moment, they should be closer.

And they can’t, and they won’t, despite the love in their eyes, because it’s not right, whatever that means. And so this love, and the acting is so spectacular that I truly felt as if it were real love, is surpressed, denied and lost. And when the film reaches its climax on a Tokyo street, wordless as it may be, it’s sad, and it’s affecting and you want nothing more for love — the real kind of love. The kind that can’t be right or wrong or lost, but simply is and always will be. The kind that we miss, in our vain searches for the safety of what’s right.

It’s an amazing script, and the film itself stands as my favourite so far this year. I was not a fan of Coppola’s previous work on The Virgin Suicides, which I thought was the cinematic equivalent of an arty yet incredibly angsty 14-year-old girl’s diary. With this film, however, she really proves herself as a director. The shots are less gimmicky, but still vibrant and visually appealing.

And she has to be commended for the acting she coaxes out of the always-great Bill Murray, who’s taken to a whole new level of greatness in this film. He carries such sadness in his eyes, and it’s phenomenal just how much he can get across with just a facial expression. And though Scarlett Johansson, Giovanni Ribsi and the rest of the cast all turn in good performances as well, it’s clearly Murray’s film, and he delivers in spades.

There’s a scene towards the middle of the film, right after the wonderful Karaoke sequence, when Scarlett Johansson, clad in a cute pink wig, comes into the hallway where Bill Murray’s sitting with his back to the wall. They’re both tired, more than a little drunk, and overwhelmed by everything that has happened that night. She sits beside him, there are no words, and she puts her head on his shoulder. The silence and the looks on their faces says everything, and all at once it’s gorgeous and heartbreaking. And it’s that silly sort of love.

To capture everything that is love in a story, poem, film or painting would be absolutely an impossibility, but at the same time we have to commend those artists who capture even a little of this feeling — these feelings — in their work. Sofia Coppola, Bill Murray, Scarlett Johansson shows us exactly that, and it’s genuine, touching and heartbreakingly beautiful. A film that has to be seen.

Highest recommendation.