Lost in Translation
by Sofia Coppola
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DVD Cover Information
Actor: Akiko Takeshita, Anna Faris, Bill Murray, Giovanni Ribisi, Scarlett JohanssonDirector: Sofia Coppola
Brand: UNI DIST CORP. (MCA)
Writer: Sofia Coppola
Producer: Callum Greene
Producer: Francis Ford Coppola
Producer: Fred Roos
Producer: Kiyoshi Inoue
Producer: Mitch Glazer
Producer: Ross Katz
DVD: Region Code 1
Audio: English (Unknown), Dolby Digital 5.1; Spanish (Subtitled); French (Subtitled); English (Original Language), Dolby Digital 5.1; French (Original Language), Dolby Digital 5.1; French (Dubbed), Dolby Digital 5.1; English (Published), Dolby Digital 5.1; French (Subtitles For Dubbed), Dolby Digital 5.1
Format: AC-3, Anamorphic, Color, Dolby, DTS Surround Sound, Dubbed, DVD, NTSC, Subtitled, Widescreen
Picture Format: 1.85:1
Running Time: 104 minutes
Published: 2004-02-01
DVD Release Date: 2004-02-03
Audience Rating: R (Restricted)
Studio: Universal Studios
Product features:
- Condition: New
- Format: DVD
- AC-3; Anamorphic; Color; Dolby; DTS Surround Sound; Dubbed; DVD; Subtitled; Widescreen; NTSC
Movie Reviews of Lost in Translation
Movie Review: Ineptitude + Lethargy + Torpor= Oscar Gold
Summary: 5 Stars
As one might reasonably surmise, due to the excessively positive reception of this film (in terms of aesthetic cinematography and acumen of craft) I was somewhat piqued to see it for myself. After all the extortionate lengths that some critics have endeavored to pursue in adulation of this movie (in particular Bill Murray's performance and Sofia Coppola's script and direction), try and imagine the diminutive fraction of possibility that this film might actually have a reputation that precedes it. Come on, Ebert readily assessed it as a work of sheer brilliance, Siskel's foreskin foreheaded doppleganger Roepert opined likewise, and every other person who ever witnessed it regaled its power to be tantamount to the second coming. In what absurd, deranged, and forlorn alternate dimension could the facts possibly divagate from the hype? Well keep your cosmonaut shoes on, because you need jaunt no further than your local multiplex or video store to see how incredibly fallible the majority of critics truly are. Now, what is wrong with the picture?One of the unfortunate misgivings about this movie is the fact that the trailer and all its satellite previews made it appear like some kind of standard Murray comedy. We are given brief glimpses into the more garrulous scenes in the picture, all of which if properly taken out of context and arbitrarily collocated into a filmic presentation would approximately last no more than 45 seconds (hmm, the usual running time for tv spots that advertise these films). But I can willingly forgive a fallacious trailer as long as I am supplied with some modicum of entertainment. Not since Gigli have I suffered the kind of cine-masochistic audacity that is prevalent in Lost in Translation. I can at least commend Gigli on the fact that it made ample use of its running time by appropriating a little something called dialogue (albeit a banal, deliriously unfunny discourse), whereas Lost in Translation decides to express itself in the form of epigrams. We are given a random collection of words that are so disassociated with human emotions - lines that are empty, callous, frigid, and insipid - that I have heard more convincing dramatic delivery from C-3P0 and his four inch tall life partner R-2D2. Simply put, no one in this movie knows what sentimentality is, nor would they recognize it if it lodged itself in their urine canal. But hold your trendy tongues you art house phonies, to any of you who would so naively conclude that I am not familiar with pictures that fail to utilize the standard pentameter of Hollywood banter, for that is far from the case. 2001: Space Odyssey and Eraserhead are both films that confidently employ succinctness in lieu of loquacious rambling. Yet those two films differ from Coppola's film in the one major way : they actually supplant their silence with a redeemable artistic aspect. But the script (or lack thereof) is only one of the baneful obstacles this turgid priapus cannot competently penetrate.
Let me address the area of performance from our two main actors, Bill Murray and Scarlet Johannson. Scarlet's character is supposed to be a jaded philosophy major. The staggering problem of this is the fact that she barely attempts to open her mouth and say something intelligent. I do not particularly care if Sofia Coppola was trying induce a full-blown aneurysm from those people who watch her movie and recognize the aberrant timidity of her lead heroine, nor do I care if she was trying to suggest the vernal obfuscation of the character who merely studied philosophy on a whim but now finds herself abruptly distanced from the world - such trite characterization that clumsily fuddles with assumptive subtext wretchedly turns a viscid knife in my stomach - because quite honestly, her character made me feel absolutely nothing. I no doubt theorize that I would receive warmer reciprocity from the rubber inguinal notches of a blow-up doll. But what is most offensive to me as a moviegoer is the superfluous praise of Murray's "outstanding" performance. If someone would kindly delineate to me the fundamental differences of Murray's character here and his portrayal in other movies, I would most humbly appreciate it. The fact is this: Bill Murray plays Bill Murray playing Bill Murray in this movie. He assumes the role he has assumed in every single movie he's ever been in (save for Caddyshack). The dry wit, the partial smile, the frequently bumptious lifts of the eyebrows to punctuate the irony of a situation - check, check, check, everything seems to be in order. And though I do appreciate Murray as a comedian, I do not think it befitting to flank him with vociferous hosannas and felicitations simply because his character appeared flaccid for an entire hour and forty two minutes on screen.
So we now set our sights on Coppola as a director. Given the size of her father (in terms of work and mountainous girth) it is indeed foreseeable that she will be subjected to nepotistic juxtaposition. But as most of you recall, it was the young voluptuary herself who single-handedly turned the Godfather III from lesser-sequel to garish and straight-to-video histrionic horse manure. Not apparently content with assassinating the repute of her father's career (after the bloated anti-climax of the last in the Godfather trilogy, he went on to direct the nauseously stifling Jack, a schlocky Robin Williams picture of Spielbergian pseudo-emotional magnitude), the young auteur has decided to proliferate her vile bacteria into the careers of other people. It's a shame, because if Lost in Translation had been a different film entirely, like Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo, it might have been good. But as it is, it is pure garbage. Try Monster or American Splendor, two wonderful films forgotten by the burgeoning circle jerk of American critics. As for Lost in Translation, it definitely attests to the presumption I had that Roger Ebert is an imbecilic merger of words who's increasingly offal taste in movies (something that has never ceased to baffle me) is at the prompt vanguard of the declining state of film recognition. Here is a man who can volubly opine for two hours on the eminent importance of Orson Wells' great progeny Citizen Kane and the surreal mastery of Fellini's 8 1/2, yet is so obdurately stubborn that he rejects the greatness of movies like Blue Velvet and favors this disposable garbage. It may seem incredible, but remember that this agglutination of lard bestowed his prestigious and ever-cantankerous thumb of approval to such tripe as the Hulk and Blue Crush. Bahh.
There are moments here, though they may be evanescent, that begin to show signs of life - we are traduced into believing a character could delve beyond their static veneer and actually articulate a genuine emotion or two. There was one scene in the movie when I was so stupid as to presume the torture would lessen and the movie would at least end with an inspired spark, no matter how uneven the events leading up to the denouement. That scene was the karaoke scene, where Johannson's character bellows an uncertain and stodgy rendition of the Pretenders' "Brass in Pocket." Subsequent to her performance, Bill Murray belts out an Elvis Costello tune. But even as that aroused some interest it made me much more critical of the film's astronomical failure. As he sang "What's so funny about peace, love, and understanding" I began to feel even more molested by my viewing experience. I have realized why. It seems that brief sequence is comparable to the film in its entirety. It flirts with presence of life, it appears to be vibrant and amassed in the blinding neon lights of Japan, yet it reveals the story and the characters as lifeless, mirthless, miserable creatures who faintly utter disjointed nonsense without the slightest palpebration of energy. The whole movie was so dreadfully absurd in its tragi-comic awfulness that it really made you think of the crooning losers who act like unproclaimed kings in karaoke bars. Lost in Translation is like that. Its amateurish, but not in the warm way of most independent movies. It is stunningly pointless, an exercise in futile relations and even more of wayward characters who have not the capability to recognize their pitiable selves. It's not that the characters allow their emotions to distract from their enactment with one another, no, it is something far more drab and lugubrious. It is a representation of two faceless characters. Two desparate people who cannot recognize the futility nor the audacity of their desparation. I am reminded of the final scene when Murray says goodbye to Scarlet's character. That one scene (coupled with the karaoke singing) provides explanation for the entire summarization of the movie. It is endless and inauthentic, a documentation of absolutely nothing! Yet it continues to prow along, moving forward despite the lack of enthusiasm or concern, not because Sofia is trying to convey some vague statement about the inefficacy of human relationships, nor because there was a point at all, merely because it is like its characters, it does not possess the proficiency to do anything else.
Why do I anoint it with 5 stars then, if I so evidently despise it? Because I get a sense of slight satisfaction with the thinking that maybe some lowly desk clerk at Tip Top Video will be perusing through the higher reviews for snobby affirmation of his devotion to this film, some dull expatiation about the esoteric quality of the movie and how others are fools not to appreciate it, only to unearth an inveighed condemnation of unquestionable disgust for a movie that barely qualifies as cannon fodder.
Summary of Lost in Translation
Bill Murray (Actor), Scarlett Johansson (Actor), Sofia Coppola (Director) | Rated: R | Format: DVD
- # DVD Release Date: May 3, 2009
- # Run Time: 104 minutes
Like a good dream, Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translation envelops you with an aura of fantastic light, moody sound, head-turning love, and a feeling of déjà vu, even though you've probably never been to this neon-fused version of Tokyo. Certainly Bob Harris has not. The 50-ish actor has signed on for big money shooting whiskey ads instead of doing something good for his career or his long-distance family. Jetlagged, helplessly lost with his Japanese-speaking director, and out of sync with the metropolis, Harris (Bill Murray, never better) befriends the married but lovelorn 25-year-old Charlotte (played with heaps of poise by 18-year-old Scarlett Johansson). Even before her photographer husband all but abandons her, she is adrift like Harris but in a total entrapment of youth. How Charlotte and Bill discover they are soul mates will be cherished for years to come. Written and directed by Coppola (The Virgin Suicides), the film is far more atmospheric than plot-driven: we whiz through Tokyo parties, karaoke bars, and odd nightlife, always ending up in the impossibly posh hotel where the two are staying. The wisps of bittersweet loneliness of Bill and Charlotte are handled smartly and romantically, but unlike modern studio films, this isn't a May-November fling film. Surely and steadily, the film ends on a much-talked-about grace note, which may burn some, yet awards film lovers who "always had Paris" with another cinematic destination of the heart. --Doug Thomas
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