Directed by Sofia Coppola
The first minutes of Sofia Coppola’s best film to date are quite revealing: A woman, Scarlett Johansson, is in a five star hotel, beholding Tokyo’s skyline. A man, Bill Murray, looks through a car’s window, curious perhaps, but above all estranged. Combining a deeply poignant music with suggestive images, the director creates a world, a filmic universe that captures our attention immediately. What Sofia Coppola does in the opening frames is what many filmmakers struggle to achieve in their entire careers.
Throughout the film there is always a certain feeling of longing, of loneliness; longing for a different tomorrow, and loneliness as the confirmation that the one constant in human condition is discontent. Many critics must have explored the lack of communication as a fundamental key in “Lost in Translation”, both as the obvious reference of the title and also as an indicator of all that we can’t put into language.
Perhaps in the best role of his career, Bill Murray plays Bob Harris, a washed-out actor that used to be a super star and now has to endorse a Japanese whisky to make a couple of million bucks. He feels like an alien in Tokyo. But he’s also a specular image of the Japanese people’s own alienated condition. Westernized to the extreme, the Japanese have lost their essence, they are the living example of how further can people go in order to disallow themselves.
Giovanni Ribisi’s character, a professional photographer also ponders on it: Japanese rock and roll groups that have no substance and exist only thanks to the decoration, the false reality that photography and the right publicity stunt can imprint on them. The photographer is there to sustain the alienation process, even if he disagrees with the falseness of it all.
In the same way, Bob Harris has to synthetize in a TV commercial what the Japanese consider the core of Western elegance and sophistication. He is asked to be Roger Moore, Frank Sinatra, he is asked to perform not as the white man he is but as the white man they need him to be. Of course, there can be no words or guidelines for such a taxing acting job. And that’s why also it’s impossible for the interpreters to translate the instructions given to him. Not only are words lost in translation, but also there is an unnamed need, a ‘real’ that threatens to irrupt into reality, and as Lacan explains in his psychoanalytic theory, the real exceeds the language, the real can never exist within the boundaries of the symbolic, id est, language.
Bob Harris is an exhausted man that finds alcohol soothing, although just barely. After 25 years of marriage he is unhappy. Between him and his wife no real communication exists. What takes place, however, is a very insistent simulacrum, much in the same way that everything takes place in Japan. Philosopher Alan Badiou’s talks about the importance of the simulacrum in postmodern society; if Sofia Coppola’s film is more revealing and enthralling than anything else out there is precisely because it embraces contemporaneity to the maximum; this isn’t a film about explanations, about outcomes, which would be a modernist approach; this is a postmodern film in the way that it sates our hunger for art, for beauty and for intellectual value while establishing what Derrida proposed in his deconstruction theory: knowledge can never be complete. When Bob’s wife sends him a fax, or Fed-Exes carpet samples, or calls him, it’s all a simulacrum. They are never able to connect with each other, not even at the most basic of levels.
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In the same manner, Charlotte, extraordinarily interpreted by Scarlett Johansson seems to be drifting away. She’s married to a successful photographer but she can’t figure out what to do with her time. There is no meaning for life, and that thought depresses her and fills her heart with anguish. She tries to get into self-help audiobooks to feel better, to no avail. The entire boom of auto-help material is also an example of Badiou’s simulacrum; thousands if not millions of these books are written each year, and yet they are all useless. Life cannot be summarized, standardized and explained so that you can feel better. But despair takes the best of us all, and thus self-help becomes the one and only thing that sells out nowadays.
When Charlotte and Bob meet in the hotel’s bar, they recognize in the other the same existential doubts, the same sensibilities, and they feel connected. They are the only characters able to actually communicate with each other. Their bond is intensified when contrasted with the world around them, for example, with Charlotte’s Japanese friends who are so absolutely alienated and have tried so hard to look and act like Americans that end up as ridiculous and pathetic creatures. Tokyo is a city that denies its past, its traditions, so much that it’s simply brutal to see how its inhabitants behave.
However, there is still some true beauty left (beauty as it would be understood in the Genji Monogatari and other traditional Japanese works of art), and Coppola gives us a glimpse of it, in a couple of moments. Nevertheless, this beauty, this true spirit, is constantly covered by the appalling reality that surrounds the protagonists. When Bob Harris receives the visit of a woman wearing sexy stockings, we are privy to yet another example of westernized acculturation and fantasies, although here the fantasy instead of covering the horror of the real merely exacerbates the void, the structural fissures of Japan’s society.
Sofia Coppola’s masterwork resonates deeply inside of us because it’s one of the most refined and superb portrayals of the human condition in cinema’s history. The final scene, of course, proves once again that there is no such thing as a happy ending, and precisely because of that it reminds us that life is just like that, unpredictable, full of suffering but also possibilities of change and, of course, free will. Lost in Translation makes it into my personal top twenty without a second thought.
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Hace más de una década que no visito Cusco y mis últimos viajes han sido o bien a Estados Unidos o bien a países vecinos como Colombia, la tierra de mi padre. Así es que considero una falta grave, de mi parte, estar desconectado de lo que sucede fuera de Lima. Más aún en términos artísticos.
Por suerte, aunque sea levemente, algo de esto se puede subsanar gracias a la admirable labor de la curadora Élida Román, quien se ha esforzado en descentralizar el arte. Así, con el apoyo de la galería John Harriman del Británico, ella ha logrado organizar una muestra anual enfocada en artistas de provincias, en este caso, de Cusco.
La muestra “Jóvenes talentos” reúne las originales y sugerentes esculturas en piedra y metal de Edwin Huamán y los fantásticos cuadros del artista plástico Richard Peralta. Acostumbrado al arte contemporáneo limeño, debo admitir que quedé gratamente sorprendido por el altísimo nivel de calidad de los trabajos seleccionados para esta muestra. Tantos las esculturas como los cuadros me transmitieron una fuerza y una energía que a veces no se percibe en obras de artistas locales. La muestra quedará abierta al público en la galería John Harriman (Jr. Bellavista 531 / Malecón Balta 740. Miraflores) desde el día de mañana hasta el 31 de marzo. Vayan a verla, realmente vale la pena.
Me enteré de la muestra gracias a mis amigos Andreé Ferro y Natalia Higa, justamente hace un par de semanas, los tres nos reunimos en el café Gianfranco y conversamos con Élida Román mientras comíamos helados artesanales. Conozco más artistas que curadores, pero considero sumamente valiosa la opinión de una conocedora del arte que está en constante búsqueda de nuevos talentos. Gracias a ese afán, Élida ha descubierto para nosotros la obra de dos cusqueños con propuestas artísticas de primer nivel.
Además de conversar con Andreé y Natalia durante la inauguración, también me encontré con varias amistades como Mariloli de Koechlin y artistas como Joseph de Utia. Lo cierto es que, tras conversar brevemente con ellos (y tomarme un par de vasos de whisky y algunas copas de vino tinto y blanco, dicho sea de paso), todos estuvieron de acuerdo en una cosa: la originalidad y lucimiento de los trabajos expuestos.
Por esas casualidades de la vida, la primera vez que un escritor me firmó un libro Andreé estaba presente, y eso me ha hecho pensar en la gran cantidad de libros autografiados que tengo actualmente, entre ellos “La piedra alada” del genial poeta José Watanabe. Ahí van la foto del libro y del autógrafo. Y también he decidido incluir una de mis páginas completas para un próximo cómic (así como el gran dibujante Keith Giffen se inspiró en el genial artista francés Druillet a principios de los 80, yo también intenté plasmar, sobre todo en la primera viñeta, el estilo y la composición del ilustrador galo).
