Lost in Translation (2003) Rewind

For this week’s film retrospective, we're throwing a doleful, backwards glance at Sofia Coppola’s noughties classic, Lost in Translation (2003).

Over fifteen years, a lot has happened in cinema. Somewhere, probably on a beach in Tonga, there are littered thousands of 3D glasses that were used to watch James Cameron’s Avatar and thrown away in time for the DVD release. We’ve seen the world’s first fully-painted movie, we’ve seen a house lifted by balloons and we’ve seen Sandra Bullock in space.

We’ve also seen a more concise, condensed cinematic format as is exemplified by the continued decline in average shot lengths. Michael Bay’s number fell to around 3.0 seconds (according to Vashi Visuals in 2017) and we have seen a diminution in film running times since 2003 (IMDB/Dr. Randal Olson).

If cinema is a reflection of life, it would appear the manner by which we communicate and process information has grown increasingly abbreviated. But you don’t need a line graph to tell you that, just take a look at your phone. It's faster to send a heart emoji than it is to explain your undying love, and who needs adjectives when you have eggplants? An iPhone does as much to translate your words as it does to transport them.

What struck me, re-viewing this film, was the realisation that a story so enabled by a chance encounter, so possessed by themes of impermanence, would simply fail to exist in the year 2018, defined as it is by smartphones. Awkward pauses and fleeting glances have no place in a world where every intermittent silence is filled with a game of Temple Run. A photo of Charlotte that Bob Harris keeps precious in his back pocket is all he has to remember their time by and so the film primarily draws its tension from an archaic construct, the idea that our time together is limited; that separation is inevitable for its two protagonists. Of course, these days, such tensions are rarely existent when you can add a newfound acquaintance on Facebook and store your photos on a cloud server.

The story is told primarily through the use of very delicate, observational filmography.

Every shot is soaked in a quiet, arthouse-blue tint. Exposition is delivered in almost-indiscernible breadcrumbs. Music is used sparingly and as an emotional crutch.

You could almost describe these methods as shy, flirtatious; we are tantalisingly close to eroticism at all times throughout the movie but Coppola refuses to wane on decency, insisting that the periphery of sex is as interesting as the process.

This concept of humility runs through every fibre of the film, right down to its protagonists. Dialogue is used sparingly, often alluding to a deeper sentiment but never quite falling into overtness. The characters scoff at displays of blatant narcissism, favouring humility and dignity above all other attributes and they are regularly juxtaposed against more garishly fulsome types.

Most of what is felt is left unsaid. Most of what is accomplished is left uncelebrated.

This is a film written to advocate humility. On that point alone, it is at odds with modern narratives and, indeed, the modern lifestyle.

It seems to me that the film has taken on a new quality now, as a snapshot of its time, as a quiet but powerful statement of decency. Moreover, it provides a startling insight into how our values and the values of cinema have changed over 15 years. It is an artefact but it is not irrelevant.

It is also a film so stunningly beautiful, so equipped to handle its themes of loneliness, isolation and redemption, that I'd be surprised if, across another 15 years, we see another like it.

★★★★★