Sorry, folks, if you think I'm aligning myself with phony snobbery, but I'm with the critics on this one -- minus some of the zeal.

Rating: Null/10 (13 April 2004)

I'll concede that the hyperbole-laden reviews Lost in Translation received are, to some extent, a case of quality starved critics leaping over each other to embrace a film for its seemingly high-minded, bold rejection of Hollywood blockbuster formulas. Audiences, however, didn't respond so well to the respectable artistic values of the film and were too quick to toss the whole thing into the artsy-fartsy, snooze-fest junk bin. Predictable stuff, as the human casualty count and the sex, drugs, and rock n' roll the movie supplies don't come easy, but they do come -- just more subtly than most would care to see, or would notice if all you're looking for is a standard story arc.
Yes, some people will appreciate this work as a slyly textured, existentialist mood piece heavily influenced by foreign cinema (to be fair, it does take place entirely in Tokyo, and Sofia Coppola has expressed her intent on not stubbornly creating an `American film' abroad, but letting the environment guide her approach). And, I'm sure countless others will think, `If I wanted to spend two hours having my patience tested with a big load of crap, I'd drive my incontinent grandpa to the local Taco Bell, buy him six chalupas, and give the home attendant the night off.'
Sorry, folks, if you think I'm aligning myself with phony snobbery, but I'm with the critics on this one -- minus some of the zeal. The movie isn't as brilliant as the critics would have you believe, but it does teeter towards some true beauty at times with its depiction of the hollowness of everyday communication, the emptiness of words and actions that come into clearer view when you've been disconnected from a society where connection is the biggest rage.
This is a requiem for your senses and your languages (English, Japanese or whatever) that have been `fried mouthwateringly crispy with a delicious blend of mysterious herbs and spices' by the advertising and entertainment industry. We see how easy it easy to become lost when so much of what stimulates you has been co-opted, packaged and given such aggressive, ubiquitous selling, that it's become harder and harder to know what you're truly responding to, when you're responding to anything at all. In this regard, Tokyo, the Times Square of Japan, serves as the perfect virtual mirror for American film-goers to get a better look at themselves.
Seeing Bill Murray in a film that addresses these fancy (and admittedly, not entirely original) notions is the bigger fish out of water story here, but somehow he makes it work. When we first encounter Murray, he is Bob Harris, a 70's action star (now there's a real comedy begging to be made) reduced to shilling Suntory whiskey in Tokyo. Harris is in a state of perpetual reduction; by his wife, his Japanese directors, the big city, and the heavy loneliness that weighs upon him no matter how hard he seeks to lose himself in his new surroundings. Loneliness offers Bob no respite; whether he's in the middle of the aurally overloaded city life or the sterile hotel so soundproof you can literally hear the whirring of the fluorescent lights in the hallways. He's lost in every sense of the word, venturing out only with his physical self, as if everyday is an out of body experience, until Charlotte (played with potent, restless angst by Scarlett Johannsonn), the other lost soul in the film, drifts his way. It's unclear who's seducing whom, but when she sings the Pretender's (funny enough), `Brass in My Pocket' to Bob, Johannsonn manages to make Karaoke look a whole lot sexier than Britney Spears ever will.
Karaoke is a big part of this film, as if to say, no one cares about genuine identity searching anymore. Why should they when it's much easier to do your duty as a good, conforming consumer and choose from a convenient menu of pop-culture identities. They're all right there at your fingertips for you to just pick up and enjoy. All major credit cards accepted -- no messy introspection required. But these comforting distractions of consumerism don't last Bob like they would most people. He seems to have run through his stash 20 years too soon.
He's finished gleaning satisfaction and a sense of accomplishment from fame, money, sex, and being married with children, and now he's in a rut where his life is all about not interrupting the flow of goods and services to those who stay tapped into him for little else. It's all Bob can do to muster up enough energy to barely meet his business and family obligations. Even his own wife seems to call only to find out which color upholstery he prefers. It's a karaoke life for poor Bob -- his once proud, robust soul has shriveled up and shrunken down to the size of an Asian willie during a Polar Bear Club outing.
Despite the somber tone of the movie, Murray is a lot of fun to watch. His deft acting perfectly captures Harris being lost between success and failure; subtly shifting from brow-beaten, fireless eunuch to the impish, day-seizing rebel we're more accustomed to seeing him play after Charlotte enters his life. As numb as he is to his surroundings, he can't help but notice her. And for good reason -- Johannsonn wins the audience over with her natural beauty and charm as Charlotte, a naïve, attention starved woman, only peeking out from behind her barbed wire fence of Ivy League disillusionment when Bob arouses her curiosity as well as other feelings she can't quite sort out.
Charlotte and Bob, as well as the audience, find it easy to get past the tremendous age gap once it's obvious these two have some very good chemistry and a lot more in common than you would at first believe. Both are struggling to come to terms with age-old philosophical questions (Charlotte seems to have gone to Yale and majored in Philosophy in a futile attempt at putting these questions to rest). They are also insomniacs, trying to take the edge off the fear that their lives are passing by with no one and nothing to give it true meaning. They do this by sedating themselves with sleep deprivation, flirting with the local culture, and imbibing plenty of booze. Disconnected from everyone but themselves, the two learn to shut out the noise pollution that surrounds them, from the loudly obnoxious city down to some of the loudly obnoxious denizens, including: Kelly, a vapid, self-absorbed actress (meant to be Cameron Diaz with Anna Faris doing her plenty justice) in town to promote a stock, sci-fi action movie with Keanu Reeves, Giovanni Ribisi as Charlotte's too-cool-for-the-room, photographer boyfriend John (a spoof of Spike Jonze) who becomes easily caught up in Kelly's superficial orbit, and a whole lot of karaoke singers in desperate need of a serious talking to by Simon Cowell.
(Spoiler Coming) The film makes the point that everything is lost in translation (please forgive the cheap title incorporation) when honest, meaningful words are rarely spoken anymore and hardly anyone has the inclination, the attention span, or the heart to listen even if they were. At the end of the film, we see Bob and Charlotte, who've gone out of their way to set themselves apart from just such relationships, embracing. Bob whispers something to her that is drowned out by the sounds of a very busy street. We couldn't make out what Bob was saying, but Charlotte did, and whatever it was, it must have been something we'd all be lucky to hear from someone.