I keep trying to calm myself about the overpraising and overawarding of Sofia Coppola's "Lost in Translation," but it doesn't seem to be working. I'd like to say it's a lovely little bonbon, and leave it at that, except that I found the movie so mean-spirited to all but the two central character, Holden and Holdenette--I mean, Bill Murray and Scarlett Johannson, that I kept finding new puffs of pink-colored steam coming out of my ears. Jeff keeps telling me I ought to write an essay, and I will, but answer me this: why exactly are we supposed to feel sorry for a Yale graduate who owes no money on her college education, has a distracted but nice husband who's put her up in a swanky Japanese hotel , and who's had the time, money and resources to dabble since she got out of college? If this is suffering, to quote John Kerry, bring it on.
And exactly how charming can we really find Bill Murray's character after he's shtupped the mediocre lounge singer, mostly because his wife back home has sent him some carpet samples? These are what I once heard referred to as "luxury problems," or, as another guy I know put it, this is the sound of two people, each of them complaining that he can't get his pool blue enough.
Ah, I feel better already.
posted by Martha @ 11:47 PM
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