Column #12 - Lost in Translation...?

There's a furor on the net spreading like crap through a goose (aside: Did someone actually time the digestive cycle of your average canard or is this just creative metaphor; two things, one, I hope it's the latter and two, just how long is that anyway?) and that's the debate about what exactly Bill Murray's character Bob whispers in the ear of Scarlet Johansson's Charlotte at the end of Lost In Translation. Is he whispering some secret known only to middle-aged former child-stars on the down slope of their professional careers, forced to come all the way to Tokyo to hock cheap whiskey? Is he sharing some insight into the personal and professional development of twenty-something young women who're seeking a deeper and more meaningful relationship with themselves and their significant others? Is he telling a dirty joke about a priest, a rabbi, and a box of depends? Through a combination of creative insight, lip-reading, and intuitive skills bordering on the supernatural, I am prepared to offer several intriguing possibilities and the probable definitive answer once and for all.

I'm a big fan of Lost In Translation, not so much the lyrical freestyle of its whimsical and poignant prose, but rather the depiction of a deep and meaningful relationship between two desperate people lost and alone in a strange land. Come to think of it, it's a lot like The Last Boyscout that way. Two strangers feeling disconnected (Bruce Willis and Damon Wayans) with different backgrounds (burned out private detective on the edge, former athlete pretty boy poser) find each other in a place neither of them understands (L.A.), share meaningful looks over drinks (while ignoring Halle Berry stripping in the background), swap interesting anecdotes (Bruce about beating a Senator up while on his secret service detail, Damon about using booze and cocaine to beat his painkiller addiction), killing Taylor Negron...wait, that was more Bruce on his own...wait, that was more about a helicopter and gravity...

No, Lost In Translation shares the most in common with Last Tango In Paris. Let's compare: Foreign capital: check; strangers, isolated and alone, check; incredible self-loathing, check; graphic sex scenes, check (it's implied in the eyes of Bill and Scarlet, where they're doing the mental gymnastic nasty); Marlon Brando's butt, che-huh? That's going too far. Really, the movies are almost identical, why, they both begin with the letter "L", the sexiest and most mysterious of the consonants...Who am I kidding? Everybody knows that "V" rocks the house. But they really are similar...if Paris was Tokyo, Marlon Brando lost three-hundred pounds and was intentionally funny, and that flammable sexual chemistry consisted of no more than the mere touching of hand to foot...Hot! Last Tango in Paris shouldn't be confused with Tango and Cash, a much different movie set in a lyrical fantasy world where Sylvester Stallone is the brightest bulb and Jack Palance actually goes so far past scenery-chewing that he not only jumps his own shark but humps the barracuda as well. Seriously, where has the one-armed push-up man gone?

The first thing Bill might possibly say is: "Charlotte, I've got a number. To avoid my wife, call after nine. Charlotte, please call my number. 8-6-7-5-3-0-9. 8-6-7-5-3-0-9." He might even hum as he says it. This is why Scarlet looks so thunderstruck. She knew he was self-deprecating but musically gifted as well? Wait, didn't he do some passable karaoke while high on 'shrooms though he was somewhat tone-deaf? It doesn't matter, this is the kind of blind self-confidence that makes girls weak in the knees. That, and the whole 'I'm a rebel musician angry with the world' thing.

The second thing Bill could say to Charlotte is that despite all the work, the downs and the ups, marriage is worth the effort. The real theme of Lost In Translation isn't so much cultural dislocation as it is working through your marital issues with a platonic coach/life-partner. Bob's in Tokyo auspiciously working a whiskey commercial, but really he's taking a vacation from his marriage. Which is an idea of sufficient merit that all married couples should consider taking separate vacations. Ideally, he's looking for a counterpoint-relationship, something the exact opposite of his frightfully shrill and realistic phone-wife (only heard on the phone), free of guilt and associated trappings, free from malaise and boredom, free of the everyday. I'd go to Tokyo to avoid this woman, heck I'd go to Timbuktu, anywhere they didn't have cell service, which is pretty much anywhere you get a flat tire. Charlotte is the little girl lost, reassessing her place in the universe in a city that could give ADHD kids visual over-stimulation. Her husband takes her for granted, has his work and his friends to occupy his time. She wants to be the center of someone's universe; Bob wants to feel needed. Together, they satisfy each other's longing. Bob and Charlotte end up deeply connected, even intimate in their own chaste way, but it's temporary, there's always been a clock on it. It's temporary, their situations are temporary, even the friendship itself is temporary.

The third thing Bill might whisper in Charlotte's ear is "Meet me at the Shangri La Hotel and Casino in Laughlin, Nevada, the Thursday after next. Room 37. Ask for 'Big Daddy' at the counter. Bring pimentos. Lots of pimentos." I know this seems a little involved give the limited time he seemed to be whispering in her ear, but everyone knows that ear-whispering, like horse-whispering, causes a temporal disturbance in the space-time continuum that makes it appears quicker to the observer. In the eye of storm, talking can go on forever...and ever...and ever...

I was forced to pick, then I'd say that the words Bill whispers to Scarlet are belong somewhere in the middle. "Call me when you get back to L.A. No, wait, I'm married, this'll never work. Forget it. Wait, it's not a happy marriage. You comfortable being the other woman? I never met your husband but he seems like a great guy, especially if your taste in men is any indication. He's a keeper. If you need to talk, call me at...Wait, if my wife answers say you're Rosita, the Dominican geisha girl from the convention in Reno. Maybe it was never meant to be. Kiss me, Charlotte. Kiss me like you mean it. Remember Charlotte, always remember one thing...Rosebud."
Jess Nakaska is an aspiring screenwriter always on the lookout for the next great script idea. He'll let you know if he finds it. Feel free to contact him at jessnakaska@hotmail.com.