Lost in Translation is a comfortable film. It's Antonioni-lite, it's existentialism 101, it poses these characters as tortured, angsty souls that can't seem to reconcile their desires of self-actualisation and the obligations of their privileged existence. It has become clear by now that Sofia Coppola has also found a comfort zone; she's visited this material before, of the upper-middle class citizen surrounded and disgusted by artificial excess and seeking solace beyond what is already granted to them by birth or status (Somewhere, and The Virgin Suicides). You can always make this work, but there is a very fine line between being genuine and being simply self-absorbed.
The film sees gone to seed movie star Bob Harris and post-graduate/marriage Charlotte find their solace in each other, in Tokyo. Coppola relies heavily on alienation of the Japanese setting to whisk them away from their ennui; removed from the usual hustle- bustle of corporate America, they lose themselves in the night-life of the city and forget all their troubles. They are pretty and comfortable experiences; Acord shoots with energy and vitality, aligning his camera as a hazy participant itself, lost in the neon maze of Tokyo. Charlotte marvels at the many lights and gadgets of the arcade, as if she is relishing the childhood glee and freedom. Inhibitions are destroyed through booze and karaoke - a wild and once-in-a-lifetime adventure.
But Coppola also brings in a rather bizarre side to the Japanese culture, which has led to accusations of racism. Offensive or not, the portrait she etches of contemporary Japan is a insulting elementary contrivance, which seems to serve the characters at every turn. Technological advances are demonised; the fax machines wakes him at four in the morning, the blinds automatically open against his will, the shower-head offers unwanted freedom, even the elliptical is against him. He is mocked at every turn. The commercial director spits a furious stream of instructions, which are simply translated for the bemused Bob. The missed opportunity for comedy (subtitles would have offered insight into the director's zeal, plus his eagerness and homage to Casablanca) creates another effect; instead of laughing at the idea of messages being lost in translation, we are merely laughing at the director and his gibberish. His passion turns into wackiness, which is then material for condescension. When Coppola tries intentional comedy, it fails spectacularly, dragging out the tired trope of the Japanese mixing up their l's and r's into ridiculousness. These are not Japanese characters, but silly stereotypes.
The crux of the film is that the pair's situation has led them to this moment. Aside from Coppola's rather lazy imagining of the absent husband and potential infidelity (Anna Faris at her most annoying), their heartfelt connection is tenuous at best. Coppola never lifts it beyond your standard Hollywood fare; they have semi-meaningful conversations whilst lying in bed, they talk of the aimlessness of their lives at different stages, they comfort each other because they both have some vague dissatisfaction plaguing them (conveniently, neither have any other valuable friends or family to voice this to, and in their attempts to find it over the phone, there is always a task for them to run off to). But the real disappointment isn't in the predictability of the story. It's in how serious it takes itself, how their early or late life crisis, however vague, is elevated into some sort of heroic and torturous ordeal. Bob and Charlotte think themselves above all the other conforming Americans they left behind, but their story is not nearly as spectacular or special as they think it is. They merely have the luxury of being able to vacate to an exotic destination and escape for a while in their little bubble of angst. They sing just as badly as Kelly does, but are portrayed as wildly beautiful messes and bundles of insecurity. This difference in treatment reeks of navel-gazing self-importance.
The film sees gone to seed movie star Bob Harris and post-graduate/marriage Charlotte find their solace in each other, in Tokyo. Coppola relies heavily on alienation of the Japanese setting to whisk them away from their ennui; removed from the usual hustle- bustle of corporate America, they lose themselves in the night-life of the city and forget all their troubles. They are pretty and comfortable experiences; Acord shoots with energy and vitality, aligning his camera as a hazy participant itself, lost in the neon maze of Tokyo. Charlotte marvels at the many lights and gadgets of the arcade, as if she is relishing the childhood glee and freedom. Inhibitions are destroyed through booze and karaoke - a wild and once-in-a-lifetime adventure.
But Coppola also brings in a rather bizarre side to the Japanese culture, which has led to accusations of racism. Offensive or not, the portrait she etches of contemporary Japan is a insulting elementary contrivance, which seems to serve the characters at every turn. Technological advances are demonised; the fax machines wakes him at four in the morning, the blinds automatically open against his will, the shower-head offers unwanted freedom, even the elliptical is against him. He is mocked at every turn. The commercial director spits a furious stream of instructions, which are simply translated for the bemused Bob. The missed opportunity for comedy (subtitles would have offered insight into the director's zeal, plus his eagerness and homage to Casablanca) creates another effect; instead of laughing at the idea of messages being lost in translation, we are merely laughing at the director and his gibberish. His passion turns into wackiness, which is then material for condescension. When Coppola tries intentional comedy, it fails spectacularly, dragging out the tired trope of the Japanese mixing up their l's and r's into ridiculousness. These are not Japanese characters, but silly stereotypes.
The crux of the film is that the pair's situation has led them to this moment. Aside from Coppola's rather lazy imagining of the absent husband and potential infidelity (Anna Faris at her most annoying), their heartfelt connection is tenuous at best. Coppola never lifts it beyond your standard Hollywood fare; they have semi-meaningful conversations whilst lying in bed, they talk of the aimlessness of their lives at different stages, they comfort each other because they both have some vague dissatisfaction plaguing them (conveniently, neither have any other valuable friends or family to voice this to, and in their attempts to find it over the phone, there is always a task for them to run off to). But the real disappointment isn't in the predictability of the story. It's in how serious it takes itself, how their early or late life crisis, however vague, is elevated into some sort of heroic and torturous ordeal. Bob and Charlotte think themselves above all the other conforming Americans they left behind, but their story is not nearly as spectacular or special as they think it is. They merely have the luxury of being able to vacate to an exotic destination and escape for a while in their little bubble of angst. They sing just as badly as Kelly does, but are portrayed as wildly beautiful messes and bundles of insecurity. This difference in treatment reeks of navel-gazing self-importance.