There’s very little you can say about Sofia Coppola.
She’s Francis Ford Coppola’s daughter.
She sells sex.
That’s more or less it.
Although, one other thing you are reminded of after watching Lost in Translation, this week’s wildly over-rated ‘classic’ film, is that she’s not short of a quid or two. And never has been. Which – I don’t know about you – I’ve always found to be a problem.
This 2003 sort-of-chick-flick, in which both Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson give epic performances, is a film the end of by which you’re so torn between liking and hating it you can’t even construct grammatically correct sentences. I mean – yes – Bill Murray rocks, even if he is just playing himself. That’s – playing himself – not with himself – clearly – as its partly Murray’s drunken faithlessness that sinks the film to a point at which you’re asking – actually – do I care about either of these self-indulgent fuckers? You know – the well to do gorgeous wife with the successful husband? The hard drinking multi-millionaire actor who spends his days and nights choosing between offers of no strings sex from random women? Of course not. It all may make sense to wealthy tinseltown fuckers – but me? On £6 an hour? After all this isn’t Day of the Locust – I’ve got ITV. I like my celebrities led by their own greed and desperation to a remote forest to eat live cockroaches thank you very much.
No – if you’re going to shoot a movie, or write a book or a play or make any kind of Art with the sheer cheek to take on existential ennui, for fucks sake plant it in the real world. And if you’re going to deal with the rich – for fucks sake be poor. Why is Scott Fitzgeralds Gatsby (now that was just a bad film) still such an icon at the same time as flying off bookshelves? Because he got it. He got it that a lot of rich people tend to be just total cunts. And that a world of Daisys and Toms without Gatsbys is a shallow Hell.
The truth is Lost in Translation is, like its chief protagonists, an insanely shallow movie. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just Mills and Boon for the educated. And I don’t give a flying fuck what he said to her at the end – unless it was the answer to Life the Universe and Everything. More likely a two hundred dollar tip and his phone number in Acapulco.
So there you go – Scarlet Johansson and Bill Murray ladies and gentlemen. A right royal Fuck off to the boths of you, and next time you’re wobbling around central Tokyo feeling fucking sorry for yourselves, nip in and rent me an explicit Manga movie would you? The kind where girls turn into furry animals and urinate. Because I’ve no real sympathy with any of those cartoon characters either – but at least they’re funny. In the meantime I’m busy – watching these two.