|
The most striking thing about 2000's The Virgin Suicides
was not the increasingly tragic and mature performances by
Kirstin Dunst or Josh Hartnett. It was the not the clear-eyed
visual tone that took mundane details of suburban childhood
to bring Jeffrey Euclindes' words to life. No, Suicides
will ultimately endure thanks to writer-director Sofia
Coppola's ability to take the above-mentioned elements and
make the audience feel like they were trapped in the skin
of a alienated high-school girl. No small task since the first-time
director did this without using any of the familiar formula
or stereotypes. She did it with the flash of bare skin during
a social function. She did it through the awkward glimpse
shared by Dunst and Hartnett during a science presentation.
She did it through the loneliness of a newly blossomed girl
lying alone in her prom dress on a emerald-green football
field. This is a storyteller that trusts the audience to react
based on how something looks and how scenes interacted with
one another. This kept a film that could have very easily
turned into a stereotyped and forced celebration of victimhood
and created a poem of lost innocence reverberating through
life. The same can be said for Coppola's follow-up, Lost
in Translation. The story, an observation on the developing
relationship between a middle-aged man and younger woman during
a week in Tokyo, veers from the predictable May-December trappings
and focuses on two lost souls trying to understand themselves
at very different points in life. Thanks to knockout performances
by Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson as well as a carefully
observed backdrop, Coppola once again makes the traditional
and makes a story about something lost that has been found.
Bob Harris (Murray) is an actor who has reached the end of
his rope. Having reached his peak in the 1970's, he is resigned
to taking a $2 million paycheck for filming a whiskey ad in
Japan. In between photos shoots with overly artistic directors
and overly polite translators, Harris virtually stumbles around
this foreign city in a haze. Tokyo seems so familiar with
American brand names and plenty of natives that speak English.
But Tokyo - a city I have yet to visit - feels like an American
city come to full Westernized Reconstruction in the 1950's.
Things are slightly louder, everything juts out in bright
neon, and the world feels like a dream. Harris is detached
from his wife to the point where the main focus of their conversations
is the new carpeting in the study. He says he took the ad
job to help with the wife and kids back home but knows he
"should be doing a play somewhere or something."
In the same space yet in a different place is Charlotte (Johansson),
a recent college grad who married a way-too-hip photographer
(Giovanni Ribissi) and is now stuck hanging around the hotel
room while he shoots super-models. Harris notices her in the
hotel elevator one day but they do not strike up a friendship
until they begin to hit the on-site bar with more frequency.
They go out to karaoke bars, to trendy clubs, and just seep
in the streets of a town that seems all-so-unfamiliar to both.
They discuss their spouses, their decisions, their surely
inevitable conclusions. To Harris, Charlotte is a key to a
time where life was more simple and perhaps not happier, but
certainly more carefree. To Charlotte, Harris is someone who
understands her unhappiness and knows which road she's on
and which roads she should certainly avoid. While there is
always the undercurrent, the sexual tension between the two
acts more like a prearranged border than anything that will
be stepped across the in the third act. By the third act,
this person who doesn't understand the full implications of
life learns something from the man who knows it all too well.
The translation is complete; only leaving bittersweet memories
and longing in its place.
For a film that centers between two people talking, Lost
in Translation doesn't rely that much on dialogue. The
central images are the actors themselves. Murray looks like
he's slimmed down from some of his more recent work but he
looks worse in the weary skin of Bob Harris. His hair is scattered
and his physique, based on a few shirtless scenes, is baggy.
For Murray, it's an opportunity to use the natural hangdog
look to evoke sadness rather than laughs. Johannsen is by
far one of the most beautiful actors working right now but
her face is sad from the first shot. With a smoke continually
hanging from her lips and eyes continually on the verge of
tears, she's an innocent to the world who knows that good
things are not going to be immediate. Her presence suggests
a controlled vulnerability; as though she's in a rough spot
but not totally without guilt for being there. Then, there's
Tokyo. Several have complained that Lost in Translation
takes stereotypes of the Japanese culture and plays them
for laughs. This, dear reader, is a tad bit narrow. And when
I say tad bit, I really mean a lot. Tokyo is meant to be seen
as an impression of these two character's world view. In a
state between where things do not make sense and when they
become understood, the same image can mean different things.
Charlotte is left numb and cool by even the most profound
sights. On the verge of tears, she tells a friend at home
that a ceremony at a temple was "supposed to be spiritual
but I couldn't feel anything." Her friend's near distracting
and dismissive tone on the other line only confirms her sadness.
Harris, on the other hand, sees the absurd and feels unmoved.
A candy-colored talk show with an Andy-Dick type guest barely
widens the eye nor does the backdrop of Mt. Fuji during a
round of golf. The fact that neither one of them can comprehend
what's around them is not so much the fault of the town, this
is merely just an extension of their dilemma. The only thing
that is a blank slate in the film is the hotel that serves
as the primary location. Full of friendly staff members and
a sterile sheen, the hotel is just a center of the storm where
Bob and Charlotte can merely regroup. Even the hotel prostitute
feels like a complimentary chocolate mint. When a film is
this visual, details are important. And Coppola is a slave
to them. Watching this film is like observing a very busy
painting. Everything relies on everything else for the story
to sink into the audience. So rarely does a film understand
that a picture can say a thousand words, but its certainly
a pleasure to watch the concept in action.
Of course, these characters do verbally interact and their
creation and execution is as well done as anything else. There
are moments of true wit and sadness in this picture. When
Harris has to shoot the whiskey ad, the triangular banter
between actor, translator, and director is priceless. "You
know the Rat Pack", asks the director choppily. Harris
responds and proceeds to offer a face for each performer.
("Hey, man. You want Joey Bishop?") There's also
a very funny moment where Charlotte observes an actress giving
a press conference in the hotel where she explains why she
is so spiritually connected to Keanu Reeves. ("We are
both from LA and both own two dogs.") But the real nuggets
are between these two characters. When Harris tells Charlotte
about what kids do to your life, its hard to listen to some
of the frankness but seems too realistic to be critical. Coppola
has too much respect for these two to make any kind of explicit
romance occur. This is respect on levels true to the characters
- these two are way too smart to become physically involved
with someone over such a short period - and to the audience
- it's hard to root for adulterers in all honesty. So, the
passion rises to the surface with a brief peck to the cheek
or in glances while jealously seethes over a casual encounter
Harris has with a hotel employee. Even in the midst of all
of this internalized crisis with an unusual canvas, these
two still see each other. They know what each other wants
and, more importantly, what each needs. A scene near the end
has been the subject of much dispute. Harris whispers in Charlotte's
ear and then leaves. I swear I heard what he said, and it
speaks to the type of connection that is established. This
is a film about being truthful to yourself and to one another.
Being truthful may be the best compass availible.
With The Virgin Suicides and Lost in Translation,
Coppola can line up with the likes of Sam Mendes and hubby
Spike Jonze, who have both shaken up cinema with a mere one-two
punch. In several ways, Coppola's style rises above the pack
of young filmmakers in the way she is able to make us feel
for characters by making them an extension of their environment.
This is a gift that has certainly been inherited on some level
but feels natural in general. Actors like Murray and Johansson
have never been better and her lens is the perfect accomplice
to the performances. The legacy has been established and will
hopefully continue without any appearances in Godfather
Part 4.
|
