Perfect Days

 

Director Wim Wenders

PERFECT DAYS         B                                                                                                         Japan  Germany  (124 mi)  2023  d: Wim Wenders

Next time is next time.  Now is now.                                                                                                —Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho)

While this contemplative existential study has the imprint of a Wim Wenders film, known for his meditative explorations of alienation and longing, and for making extremely literate films with carefully chosen rock ‘n’ roll music, and a lifelong love for the Kinks, as his graduation thesis film, SUMMER IN THE CITY (1970), shot on 16mm by longtime Wenders collaborator Robby Müller, was notable for its continuous use of Kinks music.  Many are proclaiming this is a return to form, a throwback to his earlier films, and while there are obvious parallels, it lacks the freedom of movement of his earlier 70’s and 80’s films, where an endless landscape became a central character that dominated the screen.  With its more compressed Tokyo setting, it recalls the Japanese odyssey explored in Tokyo-Ga (1985), an observational travelogue that pays tribute to the unhurried ruminations of Yasuhirō Ozu.  A graduate of the University of Television and Film Munich in 1970, Wenders worked as a film critic for various publications while he was still in school, and while he is a major figure in the New German Cinema movement from the 60’s to the 80’s, an era when most German films were subsidized by state television, Wenders is perhaps less known than his towering compatriots Rainer Werner Fassbinder and Werner Herzog, and while his films may be less radical, they have an equally distinctive style, coming closer to the everyday, while also more alienated and detached.  The protagonists in Wim Wenders films tend to be on the literary side, like Bruno Winter (Rüdiger Vogler) from Kings of the Road (Im Lauf der Zeit) Road Trilogy Pt. 3 (1976), who periodically can be seen reading William Faulkner’s 1939 novel The Wild Palms, with its infamous closing line, “Between grief and nothing I will take grief.”  In Wenders’ new film starring Kōji Yakusho, long associated with the works of Kiyoshi Kurosawa, the protagonist is also seen reading Faulkner’s The Wild Palms, along with other books, including Aya Kōda’s Ki, and a collection of Patricia Highsmith’s short stories.  Amusingly, the used bookstore owner (Inuko Inuyama) always offers her own expository comments about the author of each of books he purchases, where her brief yet revelatory insight mirrors the internalized reflections of this film. Wenders exposes how modern life is stressful and degrading, how we disconnect from culture and social relations by transforming everything into a commercial transaction, whether it’s work, love, or friendship.  Wenders honors a traditional aspect of Japan which has a strong culture of respect and duty, including a respect for cleanliness and the environment, but also for serving the common good.  The knock on the film is that it does occasionally veer into cliché’d moments of sentimentality, where the music is used to provide the emotions the film discreetly avoids, becoming a nostalgic lament for the days when people routinely took pride in their work, while offering an overly optimistic take on class equality, honoring the value of menial labor, but it also accentuates the often overlooked transient moments of our lives, creating a cinematic tone poem of ephemeral beauty.  

At the heart of this film are tiny architectural marvels, backed by the non-profit Nippon Foundation, where the Tokyo Toilet project was responsible for the creation of 17 new public bathroom facilities across Shibuya, Tokyo (a major commercial and finance center featuring two of the busiest railway stations in the world), each one designed by leading architects intent on transforming the perceptions of public rest room facilities in Japan, where according to a 2016 government survey devised by the Ministry of Land, Infrastructure, Transport, and Tourism, a mere 1% of participants reported frequently using toilets at parks and public areas, while 90% insisted they rarely or never used them due to the belief they were unclean, unsanitary, and unsafe, which is fairly typical of most large cities, where this depiction feels more like a dream oasis than a reality, as these futuristic designs are so appreciably welcoming.  Award-winning architect Ban Shigeru came up with the idea of see-through toilets with glass walls so potential customers can see for themselves how astonishingly clean they are, with the otherwise clear walls turning opaque if they are occupied, while also introducing high-tech devices with heated seats and a built-in bidet with adjustable water temperature.   Using colorful modernist designs that perfectly blend into their urban environment, PERFECT DAYS - Clip 2 YouTube (45 seconds), the key to their success is maintaining them in a pristine state, with a dedicated cleaning staff dressed in recognizable uniforms keeping regular cleaning schedules, where the maintenance status can be posted online.  With this in mind, Wenders and co-writer Takuma Takasaki have concocted a near wordless rumination on the experiences of a middle-aged toilet cleaner in Tokyo, as the self-contained reserve of Hirayama (Kōji Yakusho, winner of the Best Actor award at the 2023 Cannes Film Festival, also an executive producer on the film) is seen going through his methodical routine each day, reading bargain-bin paperbacks before bed, neatly folding his futon mattress in the corner of his cramped apartment each morning, lovingly tending to his plants, hand-picked from parks when they are small sprigs blocked from the sunlight, overshadowed by larger trees, which he transplants to his home, drinking a can of coffee out of a vending machine before heading to work where he mops and scrubs toilets, keeping them spotlessly clean, showing extreme diligence in his work ethic as guardian of the facilities, where it’s ten minutes or so before a single spoken word is uttered.  Instead the camera holds tight to Hirayama, who is in nearly every frame of the film, with viewers seeing what he sees, experiencing what he experiences, visiting public baths frequented by middle-aged and senior men while also routinely having meals in modest establishments where they cheerfully greet him as a regular customer, becoming an immersive journey into the existential soul of a single, solitary man who is part of society’s invisible class, low-wage workers who are ignored by the larger public as if they don’t exist.  But we quickly learn what’s so appealing about him in the early morning light, playing a cassette tape in his minivan stocked with supplies on the way to work, as we hear Eric Burdon and the Animals in all their glory sing the 1964 classic, The Animals - House Of The Rising Sun (Music Video) [4K HD] YouTube (4:20).  The music sets the tone for what follows, as despite his meticulous routine, there’s something uniquely different about this man of few words. 

Every day Hirayama stops to eat lunch in a wooded park setting, eating a sandwich out of a vending machine while reading his book, yet he’s transfixed by the changing light in the trees above, pulling out his old Olympia 35mm film camera to take a snapshot, like Philip Winter (Rüdiger Vogler) in Alice in the Cities (Alice in den Städten) Road Trilogy Pt. 1  (1974), while also observing an elderly homeless man (Min Tanaka) in the park doing Tai Chi movements or collecting a bundle of sticks that he carries tied to his back, something out of the ordinary, appearing out of place, yet there’s something appealing about the way he looks out for him, always acknowledging his presence, showing ultimate respect for those living on the margins.  Even off the clock, Hirayama shows an introspective reserve, yet extreme dedication to every moment of his life, expressed through prolonged silences, as the film slowly peels back the layers of the man, excavating meaning behind the rituals of his existence, finding poetry and purpose in the mundane, where this obsession with cleaning might be a metaphor for cleansing his life, as if atoning for past sins.  Like Jim Jarmusch in his road adventures, Wenders sprinkles in a few oddball characters, where the chatty, hyper-nervous Takashi (Tokio Emoto) is Hirayama’s less dedicated, more easily distracted working partner who needs to scrounge up some cash for his date with Aya (Aoi Yamada), remarking she’s a ten out of ten, a bohemian blond who is different, probably out of his league, which explains his intensifying anxiety, melting down into a moral crisis when he exerts extreme pressure trying to manipulate Hirayama into selling some of his vintage cassettes, mostly music from the 60’s and 70’s, as they’re worth a fortune, fearing this opportunity will pass him by, growing ever more desperate with each passing minute.  Perhaps unsurprisingly, the date (which we never see) doesn’t go well, but Aya grows fascinated by tape cassettes.  Arriving out of nowhere, yet planted on his doorstep is Hirayama’s teenage niece Niko (Arisa Nakano), who stays for a few days, no reason given, becoming firmly embedded in her uncle’s routine, helping him on the rounds, eating that same sandwich for lunch, photographing that same tree on her phone, Perfect Days | Exclusive Clip YouTube (1:37), borrowing the same books to read, where it’s clear how fond they are of each other, even if they never formally express it, apparently turning to him when she has troubles at home.  Both obtain gratification from having a structure, from being organized and enjoying the small moments without living in a hurry, where their bike ride together recalls the memory of Setsuko Hara as Noriko in Ozu’s Noriko Trilogy Late Spring (Banshun) (1949), Early Summer (Bakushû) (1951), and Tokyo Story (Tokyo Monogatari) (1953), especially when he reminds her “The world is made up of many worlds.  Some are connected, and some are not.”  In many ways, Hirayama (the last name of the family in TOKYO STORY), resembles a modern day Chishū Ryū from that Trilogy, each exhibiting a masterclass in minimalist screen acting, sharing the same fatherly wisdom, the conventions of comfort and routine, while taking extreme pleasure in minor details.   

The music of Lou Reed figures just as prominently, starting the day with the sunlight bathing his face, PERFECT DAYS | Official Clip | In cinemas now YouTube (1:07), while also languishing in the atmospheric warmth of The Kinks - Sunny Afternoon (1966) 4K YouTube (3:36), where each day offers something new, yet the most stylistic innovation comes from black and white dream sequences, which appear like transitional pillow shots in Ozu films, an abstract blend of images that seem to contrast shadows and light, with the “dream instillations” design credited to Donata Wenders, the wife of the director.  If you stay until the end of the final credits you’ll discover this comes from the Japanese concept of Komorebi (Komorebi 木漏れ日), which translates to “sunlight leaking through trees,” describing the pattern of light that appears when the sun’s rays filter through the overhead leaves of the trees, casting shadows that last only an instant before disappearing forever, creating a moment of fleeting beauty, like a Haiku poem.  Another Lou Reed song seems to encapsulate the entirety of the film, Pale Blue Eyes - Velvet Underground // Perfect Days Edit YouTube (5:44), where memories come back to haunt us, often filling us with regret, yet the compilation of thoughts and reflections over an entire lifetime are what comprise our unique identity, as every moment becomes magnified through the lens of Wenders and his cinematographer Franz Lustig who has worked with him since LAND OF PLENTY (2004), in this case using full-frame lenses from the 70’s.  One of the most heart-wrenching moments of the film comes from a basement noodle bar proprietess known only as Mama (Sayuri Ishikawa), who treats Hirayama with a kind affection, like a long lost friend, but when one of the customers pulls out a guitar, she is persuaded to sing for the house, a reprise of a song we heard earlier, but given a distinct Japanese quality that is truly her own, Perfect Days: House Of The Rising Sun (Japanse versie) YouTube (1:20).  While we’ll never know her backstory, we can only imagine how this song encapsulates her life.  Hirayama’s modest lifestyle appears to be a carefully constructed safeguard against painful family memories that still haunt him, like lingering shadows from the past, resembling the detached life of exhausted traveler Travis (Harry Dean Stanton) in Paris, Texas (1984), or Damiel (Bruno Ganz), the weary angel from Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin) (1987), where his avoidance of deep relationships and digital tools speaks to a desire for tranquility through a tightly regulated routine.  There’s a quirky moment afterwards when Hirayama runs into a complete stranger seen giving Mama a hug, Tomoyama (Tomokazu Miura), where their coming together is pure coincidence, with grave implications, yet their interaction is almost childlike, filled with nuanced emotions and a carefree spirit, leading to Nina Simone singing Feelin’ Good in the final sequence, Perfect Days - Ending Scene YouTube (2:50), which plays over close-up images of Hirayama driving his van, an extended scene focusing entirely on the man we’ve been watching for two hours, suddenly jettisoned into our lives, where he sticks with us long afterwards, actually mattering in ways we can’t really fathom.   

Lost in Translation

 

Sofia Coppola with her famous Dad, Francis Ford Coppola

Writer/director Sofia Coppola

Coppola on the set with Scarlett Johansson

Coppola and Johansson

Coppola on the set with Bill Murray

LOST IN TRANSLATION          A-                                                                                           USA  Japan  (102 mi)  2002  d: Sofia Coppola

I spent a lot of time in Tokyo in my twenties and I really wanted to make a film around my experience of just being there.  That was the starting point.  I got married not long before and kind of felt isolated.  I was in this stage where I wasn’t sure if I’d made the right choices or what I was doing in the post-college beginning of my adult life.                                  —Writer/director Sofia Coppola in Simon Brand interview from Little White Lies, August 26, 2018, Sofia Coppola on Lost in Translation at 15 

Listed at #1 on the 2003 year-end Village Voice Film Poll and Best Movies of 2003 | Film Comment's 2003 Critics' Poll, becoming a huge commercial success, where a $4 million dollar movie earned nearly $120 million dollars, yet this is the movie that drew attention to female directors.  Yes, Sofia Coppola is the daughter of celebrated director Francis Ford Coppola, so she has a leg up on everybody else, but nonetheless, this drew plenty of critical praise, drawing attention to what was uniquely different about her style and that of her infamous father, who served as an executive producer of the film.  While this didn’t start a feminist revolution in the industry, it was among the first times that a woman’s film was taken seriously, provoking different reactions from men and women, pitting mainstream Hollywood versus independent, feminism and auterism, in many ways altering our view in how we evaluate motion pictures.  Even critics who appreciated the film also derided Coppola for displaying a lack of depth, expressing a mindset that she was simply handed the reins, along with boatloads of money, from her more distinguished father in order to make the films she wanted, as many seemed obsessed with her status as the daughter of a major American filmmaker, given special privilege and offered opportunities other women lacked, all of which suggests a cinema of self-indulgence.  When French New Wave directors, almost exclusively male, rejected the traditional cinema of old and injected a more personal flair into their movies, it was met with a euphoric wave of approval, where the term “liberating” suggested a generational passing of the torch.  Sofia Coppola’s films, on the other hand, while not explicitly feminist, lay a foundation for an alternate path that repositions the male aesthetic into a cinema that at the very least expresses an awareness of female concerns, more interested in exploring a rich, interior life, drawing heavily from her own personal experiences, while at the same time engaging in an adversarial position from the traditional Hollywood model.  While Coppola’s privileged position in Hollywood does set her apart from other women filmmakers, her films embody a post-feminist culture that empowers women in radically different ways, providing the perspective of a young, female protagonist, often without voice in their environment, serving as a prolonged exploration into the way they are objectified, idealized, and defined by their surrounding society, and then subverts those expectations by introducing a different style and texture to the film itself, where the style actually becomes the substance, offering a challenging new way to view and interpret what we’re seeing onscreen, though in many ways it resembles a European arthouse sensibility.  For instance, the opening shot of the film is a prolonged take of a transparently pink, panty-clad rear end lying on a hotel bed facing away from the audience, Lost In Translation - Opening Scene - YouTube (2:11), with Charlotte, Scarlett Johansson, only 17 at the time, first appearing in the Coen brother’s THE MAN WHO WASN’T THERE (2001) and Terry Zwigoff’s Ghost World (2001), typically viewed as an object of desire from the male gaze, much like the obligatory shot of Brigitte Bardot’s naked backside in Godard’s Contempt (Le Mépris) (1963), yet as the camera lingers, viewers become a participant in the changing experience.  Charlotte is often seen lounging around the hotel room in various states of undress, wearing just a T-shirt and panties, curled up against a windowpane, staring out a hotel window in an aerial view from an upper floor of the far-reaching panoramic landscape of the city below, with the camera looking over her shoulder, asking viewers to gaze along with her, not at her, far more interested in conveying her personalized experience, LOST IN TRANSLATION - I'll be at the Bar YouTube (1:42).

Coppola claimed she had Johansson in mind ever since seeing Lisa Krueger’s girls-on-the-run movie, MANNY AND LO (1996), narrated by Johansson, “She was like 12 years old and I just loved her.  She had that husky voice even then and seemed mature beyond her years.  There was some quality about her that stood out and I connected with.  She’s able to convey a lot without saying anything.  I had a feeling about her.  I wasn’t surprised she went on to do lots of different things after but I’m surprised when I look back at how young she was.  She was only 17.”  The jet-lagged setting in Tokyo was largely influenced by the director’s own experiences when visiting Japan, having stayed in the luxurious accommodations of the Park Hyatt Tokyo Japan hotel located on the top 14 floors of the 52 story Shinjuku Park Tower building when promoting her first film, THE VIRGIN SUICIDES (1999).  This minimalist film builds on the independent film tradition that emerged out of the 1990’s with the commercial success of the Sundance Film Festival, as well as the introduction of the DVD, which made independent films readily available, allowing film studies to develop courses around a burgeoning film movement set apart from the conventional or mainstream cinema.  Coppola’s Oscar-winning script, unusually short at only seventy pages, (Lost In Translation script), was written with the low-key, deadpan style of comedian Bill Murray in mind, claiming the film would never have been made without him, not only trapped in a foreign country with no safety net, but also caught in the uncertainties of an existential mid-life crisis.  It’s also easy to see the personal connection between the filmmaker and neglected wife Charlotte, a recent Yale philosophy graduate who acknowledges a directionless aspect to her life, disappointed with her attempts at writing and photography, fields Coppola explored before becoming a filmmaker, while Charlotte’s self-involved photographer husband John (Giovanni Ribisi, the narrator in THE VIRGIN SUICIDES), hasn’t a clue what his wife is experiencing, always abandoning her to run off on an all-day and sometimes into-the-night work assignment, resembling Coppola’s husband at the time, film and music-video director Spike Jonze, maker of Being John Malkovich (1999), ADAPTATION (2002), and Her (2013), initially meeting on the set of a Sonic Youth music video, with the couple filing for divorce two months after the release of the film.  With a small film crew in tow, led by cinematographer Lance Acord, who also worked with Spike Jonze, they employed a mobile, guerilla style of shooting, appearing in random locations throughout Tokyo, shooting on the fly, never securing permits, relying upon bystanders on the street as extras, yet this gives the film a documentary style, while also allowing improvisation both in dialogue and in shooting extended wordless sequences to take the place of the sparsely written script, with second-unit footage of the city shot by Coppola’s older brother Roman.  They did encounter unexpected delays from having to translate with those who were hired locally, resulting in some cross-cultural misunderstandings, becoming a key component to the film, exaggerated to comic effect with Bob Harris (Bill Murray) shooting his whisky commercial, an aging film star where the lure of $2 million dollars brings him to Tokyo, yet the lengthy directions aggressively spoken to him in Japanese followed by such a passive and shortly-worded English translation is reduced to skit-like parody, causing confusion and disorientation, where viewers are just as easily confounded.  In an amusing aside, when Francis Ford Coppola was in the Philippines preparing to shoot APOCALYPSE NOW (1979), he discovered that Japanese legend Akira Kurosawa was struggling to finance his next picture, so he and George Lucas agreed to help him out, with Coppola flying to Japan to star in a Suntory whisky commercial with Kurosawa, an event that provided a source of inspiration for this film.   While other films of the era were relying upon a conversion to digital cameras, Coppola bucked the trend and preferred shooting on 35mm, which elevates the color saturation, particularly in night shots, where the neon-lit Tokyo skyline is particularly compelling, enhanced by an otherworldly feel that Tokyo naturally exudes, matched only by the luminous Tokyo sequences in Edward Yang’s Yi Yi: A One and a Two... (2000).  The predominate theme is dislocation, yet the experience of being isolated in such a massive foreign metropolis, cut off from language and any sense of familiarity, allows Coppola to convey that unintelligible feeling purely by mood and atmosphere, where not much ever happens, yet viewers deeply internalize the experience.  

Reminiscent of Lawrence Kasdan’s romantic drama THE ACCIDENTAL TOURIST (1988), which delves into the complications of relations, with numerous shifts of tone within a compressed emotional range, these “accidental tourists” are similarly lost amidst a fast-paced, modernist landscape that occasionally borders on the absurd, embellishing what amounts to a “brief encounter.”  Charlotte, in her early 20’s, is just half the age of Bob, yet she’s just beginning to experience the transformative process of growing into herself as an individual, while Bob is inundated by the shifting priorities in the second half of life, where his wife and kids have learned to live without him during his long absences, while he’s forced to re-examine his life in a different context.  Accordingly, during his nighttime arrival in Tokyo, with a bleary-eyed, jet-lagged view of the city from the back of his cab, he’s only semi-consciously awake in the ride to the hotel, yet there’s a surreal moment, like a dream landscape, when he sees a brightly lit billboard containing his own image in a Suntory whisky ad, Lost In Translation: Bill Murray first time in Tokyo (Death in Vegas - Girls) YouTube (1:25).  Both Charlotte and Bob suffer from insomnia at night, leading to late-night visits to the bar, which is how they meet, Lost in Translation (2003) - 'What Are You Doing Here' Clip YouTube (3:11), developing an immediate rapport, as she laughs at all his jokes, and in a sea of culture shock confusion that is enveloping them, they actually have intelligent conversations, where it’s her astutely discerning, grown-up responses to his off-the-cuff remarks that initially attract his interest, both providing effortless and naturalistic performances that are among the best in their entire careers (Murray has indicated this is his personal favorite), where their extraordinary performances really ARE the film.  While he is lost and disoriented in the streets, unable to mix with locals because of language and cultural barriers, inevitably ending up back in his hotel room channel surfing through bizarre local shows, much of this film is seen through the muted yet curious eyes of Charlotte, who has no one else to talk to, much less confide in, as she takes solitary excursions on her own, often overwhelmed by the exotic allure of Japan, with its Zen-like connection to historical antiquity, equally fascinated by the manic obsession with Western culture, amused by the sheer excitement of their fandom.  With both characters fighting to maintain a spirit of independence, refusing to be defined by others, she dons a pink wig, copied by Natalie Portman in CLOSER (2004), as they go on a zany adventure together through the labyrinth of the city, where their memorable choices of karaoke songs are reflective of their inner feelings, Lost in Translation | Scarlett Johansson & Bill Murray's Wild Night in Tokyo YouTube (7:02).  Even her unconventional connection to Bob is not based on attraction or lust, but deeper human connections, both feeling excluded in their marriages, having to look inward for answers, yet getting philosophical about your own life leaves you on the outside looking in, feeling distanced and melancholic, as we mostly experience the city through her eyes.  Bob, and especially Charlotte, are sometimes bored and often confused by the strip clubs, karaoke bars, and Buddhist temples they visit, yet one solitary journey to Kyoto to visit the Nanzen-ji temple becomes an enthralling sequence, a lovely ode to the poetic beauty of Japan, perfectly capturing the transcendent stillness in a wordless cinematic reverie accompanied by an electronic instrumental track from Air, Alone in Kyoto - Lost in Translation (HD) YouTube (2:56).  The film did not play well before Japanese audiences while receiving backlash from critics who claimed it not only stereotyped Japan, but reduced Japanese characters to racist tropes, subject to offensive humor that would not be acceptable today.  While that may be true, it does reflect how visitors to another country bring their own racist values with them, never pretending to provide an accurate view of Japan, but the film is intentionally distorted, hence the title, to reflect a spectator’s skewed conception.  In this regard it shares a distinctly Western gaze into the East with the same incomprehensible fascination as Wim Wenders’ pilgrimage honoring Ozu in Tokyo-Ga (1985), similarly caught up in the mysteries of the surreal landscape, with both films turning into exercises of empathy.

While the limitations of their respective marriages are glaringly exposed, John never seems to have a moment to spare for Catherine, and when he does finally show up he’s too exhausted to stay awake, where his insufferable snoring is a constant reminder of why she can’t sleep.  John seems to respond much more animatedly to the fawning attention from a ditzy blond actress (Anna Faris) they run into at the hotel than he does to her (a veiled reference to actress Cameron Diaz), suggesting their relationship lacks the spontaneity and emotional depth she craves, while Bob’s life is continually interrupted by faxes from his wife Lydia reminding him of banal duties he needs to fulfill when he gets home, who’s birthday he forgot, what child’s recital is coming up, even sending him cabinet specifications and carpet samples that he needs to select for a home project.  He’s inundated by the trivialization of their unhappy phone calls which sound so coldly impersonal (voiced by the film’s costume designer, Nancy Steiner), where the weight of the mundane aspects of marriage have suddenly taken over, leaving him exasperated and wanting to escape.  Charlotte, on the other hand, tries to divert herself from her unhappy marriage by seeking knowledge and comfort in various aspects of Japanese culture, listening to monks chanting in a Buddhist temple, or learning the art of flower arranging, even adding ornamental touches to her hotel room, but discovers the unfathomable divide is too great, and instead is left feeling shallow and empty, where listening to a self-help audio tape offers no relief, with both seemingly stuck at a lonely impasse.  Even if only fleetingly, Bob and Catherine seem to hit it off in a faraway land, displaying a quick wit, communing on the same wavelength while trying to figure it out, bombarded by a language and culture they fail to understand, where furtive glances and long silences become the language of choice, dropping visual clues, exuding in the restraint of Rohmer’s CLAIRE’S KNEE (1970), where the mere suggestion of a touch resonates deeply.  Part of the beauty of the film is how it encapsulates the importance of all these fleeting moments that seem small, but are actually monumental, as we’re never immersed in the totality of their lives, but in the profound significance of this particular moment in this particular place, always accentuated by an incredible soundtrack that exists in perfect harmony, like subliminal messages accentuating interior themes, Lost in Translation - Soundtrack - Full Album (2003) YouTube (53:59).  With constantly shifting nocturnal images of the sleepless nights, they find themselves drinking sake and watching Fellini’s LA DOLCE VITA (1960) on television in Japanese, yet this also provides an opportunity to open up and share a personal moment together, shot with reflective glass images, offering a window into their souls in one of the most poignant and tender scenes, actually getting lost in each other, while still keeping a safe distance, Lost in Translation | Scarlett Johansson & Bill Murray's Sleepover Heart-to-Heart YouTube (7:41).  Dwarfed by the rapturous elegance of a spatial divide, it’s all about their tenuous relationship to that space, finding texture in architectural designs, gorgeous city landscapes, and bustling street activity, where there’s even an Olympic-size swimming pool surrounded by full-length windows, as the hotel room becomes a protective cocoon, emblematic of their subdued confinement within that space, surrounded by plush accommodations that only the rich can afford, and while this hits the mark in Coppola’s case, there’s a kind of wish-fulfillment aspect to this artificially created dreamscape, an imaginary tourist excursion that most of us can never afford, creating a kind of fantasyland for viewers.  Yet the emotional impact of the film is unmistakable, and completely accessible, built by a developing level of intimacy that feels authentic, where viewers are transported into the psychological depth of their experience, finding it intoxicating in many respects, each character obviously moved by the other, invested by the rush of emotions extending into the ambiguity of the finale, Lost in Translation, by Sofia Coppola - Ending scene (2003) (with Scarlett Johanson & Bill Murray) YouTube (5:16).  This is Sofia Coppola’s finest hour, buoyed by the magic of her understated, observational style and those endearing lead performances. 

Loneliness alone and surrounded by others (Lost In Translation)  wordless visual commentary from Frauke Cosemans set to the music of Air, YouTube (3:23)

Sofia Coppola Lost in Translation - The Directors Series  video analysis from Cameron Beyl, YouTube (13:12)