Noah and I recently re-watched Lost in Translation. It's the kind of movie my mom would hate, because there's a glaring lack of car chases and decided absence of espionage. In fact, this is as close as it gets to any of those things:
Bob: Can you keep a secret? I'm trying to organize a prison break. I'm looking for, like, an accomplice. We have to first get out of this bar, then the hotel, then the city, and then the country. Are you in or you out?"What's this movie about?" Noah asked, which he does almost every time we watch it. This time, I really understood: "It's about loneliness. About how you can feel alone, even when you're surrounded by people."
Charlotte: I'm in. I'll go pack my stuff.
Bob: I hope that you've had enough to drink. It's going to take courage.
Sometimes I think I'd be a happier person if I could walk around with my nose permanently planted in the fluffy crown of Ethan's fragrant head. Of course, wearing a baby as headgear would be prohibitive of most activities (but who really needs those activities anyway, if you can't do them with a mood-lifting baby attached to your face?). It's difficult to understand how I can feel so tenderly toward Ethan in the times when I feel little for anything else (another manifestation of my depression: a heavy, stifling apathy). I suppose the strength of my love for him is such that it penetrates my deepest gloom.
Lost in Translation is, I think, about people finding hope in the midst of depression, making a connection with a kindred soul when even those closest to you feel far away. It's one of those rare, perfectly crafted films that I could pick any scene to describe to you, and it wouldn't really give away what the movie is about. It's like a superb short story, expertly edited to the bones, that takes you somewhere profound without leading you by the nose.
But perhaps most importantly, Lost in Translation renewed my faith in Bill Murray after it was shaken by Scrooged.