Lost in Translation

'Lost In Translation' follows two Americans in Japan: Bob, a film star in mid-life crisis; Charlotte, a young wife finding her way after college. Johansson puts in a strong performance, playing herself (again). In a Hollywood of vapid over-acting, this is no bad thing. Murray, however, hams it up the way later Nicholson does. Run ragged on a treadmill - his expressive face plumbing the depths of ennui and bemusement - offers only hackneyed humour.

Philosophy graduate Charlotte - it is implied - is snooty East Coast attitude (to her husband's L.A), but we see no direct evidence of her supposed brilliance. The lack of 'real' detail extends to all the supporting roles, which exist only as foils to plot. They are 'types': the 'pretentious' photographer husband drooling over the 'bimbo' blonde actress. You have humour here, but it is not subtle, and characterisations remain shallow.

Moody 'break-beat' music backs grand tower block vistas - art-house boxes ticked - but it all remains fake. Bob - the 'male in crisis', no longer needed by his family - is supposed to elicit sympathy: his wife shown - via long-distance calls - as insensitive and shallow. The misogyny is implicit - the love that brings two people together not even suggested. So, as Bob and Charlotte quietly approach each other, the prevalent tones are all false. It is hard to care for characters that don't seem real.

This is not an awful film - there are funny, clever and gentle moments. In one great section - a night out with 'local' friends - we are shown the beautiful dislocation that can occur when we only half understand what is said; when we find ourselves in situations we would never knowingly get ourselves into.
Sadly, difference is dealt with here in stereotype, and xenophobia: the inference being that a failure to understand is not a problem of communication, but a 'problem' for whoever doesn't speak American.