Lost in Translation

REVIEW
Even at his most manic, there’s a melancholic, Emmett Kelly undercurrent in every Bill Murray performance (yes, even Caddyshack). That ephemeral sadness comes to the fore in Lost in Translation, an unexpectedly poignant exploration of the vagaries of fame and the impact of personal crisis at any stage of life. Murray is Bob Harris, American movie star, in Japan to do a whiskey commercial for which he will receive greater monetary compensation than most of the world’s population will see in a lifetime. He’s disoriented in Asia, suffering profound jet lag, in the hands of smiling handlers and a director who wants to imbue the commercial with the intensity of (ahem) Apocalypse Now. In the eternal Tokyo nightlife, he meets Charlotte (Johansson), young, attractive, intelligent, who’s accompanying her photographer husband on a shoot. Bob and Charlotte are both adrift, clinging to the international refuge of the insomniac — TV — and aching for one iota of purpose and connection. This May-December odd couple lends each other enough camaraderie and mutual commiseration to buffer the incomprehensible differences of an alien environment; which frees them to see the astonishing similarities that unite us all across any generational or cultural divide. Writer-director Coppola adroitly shifts between manic activity and beautifully quiet moments, playing to her performers' strengths and offering arresting visual imagery. But whether careening through the neon-infused hyperactivity of downtown Tokyo or golfing in the serene shadow of Mt. Fuji, the camera returns to Murray, attempting transcontinental communication with his wife, goofing while filming his commercial, taking in the lounge acts and the karaoke clubs. Murray delivers a seminal performance and Coppola crafts a sparkling jewel in telling this affecting tale of two people who share the exquisite and transcendent experience of mutual understanding.