Sometimes it is better to approach a film with low expectations and be pleasantly surprised. On that basis, I was in awe of Sofia Coppola's achievement in The Virgin Suicides. That movie haunted me for days, weeks, months. Heck, it still haunts me. It captured pure emotion in a believable manner.
So I approached Lost in Translation late in the day, after reading the reviews and hearing the hype.
It was a set up for disappointment.
Bill Murray was a plus, but I already knew he could do tragedy, having watched his overlooked performance in The Razor's Edge twenty years ago. I had enjoyed Scarlett Johansson in Ghost World. The plot seemed promising.
I can not put my finger on what was missing. Perhaps it was the absence of dramatic tension. There seemed to be no plot, merely a situation and characters. Plus I could not care about either star's character. I never lost the sense I was watching actors . I did not get involved in the lives. I grasped Charlotte's boredom, and the fact that her husband was selfish and self-involved, but this was beat into us with sledgehammer repetition. Bill Murray's Bob Harris was supposed to be adrift in a foreign culture, in a midlife crisis, but he seemed just becalmed. The whole relationship seemed pointless.Perhaps that was the point, but I hope not. Existential angst ought to involve angst not dullness. Otherwise, Waiting for Godot has already captured the flag.
It was like a mediocre regional touring production of old British plays. Uninspired, desperately threadbare and transparently obvious, but not convincing. Ultimately, forgettable.
For me at least, Sofia Coppola's promise remains unfulfilled.
So I approached Lost in Translation late in the day, after reading the reviews and hearing the hype.
It was a set up for disappointment.
Bill Murray was a plus, but I already knew he could do tragedy, having watched his overlooked performance in The Razor's Edge twenty years ago. I had enjoyed Scarlett Johansson in Ghost World. The plot seemed promising.
I can not put my finger on what was missing. Perhaps it was the absence of dramatic tension. There seemed to be no plot, merely a situation and characters. Plus I could not care about either star's character. I never lost the sense I was watching actors . I did not get involved in the lives. I grasped Charlotte's boredom, and the fact that her husband was selfish and self-involved, but this was beat into us with sledgehammer repetition. Bill Murray's Bob Harris was supposed to be adrift in a foreign culture, in a midlife crisis, but he seemed just becalmed. The whole relationship seemed pointless.Perhaps that was the point, but I hope not. Existential angst ought to involve angst not dullness. Otherwise, Waiting for Godot has already captured the flag.
It was like a mediocre regional touring production of old British plays. Uninspired, desperately threadbare and transparently obvious, but not convincing. Ultimately, forgettable.
For me at least, Sofia Coppola's promise remains unfulfilled.