One of the goodies in my recent-ish monster Amazon parcel was a DVD of Lost in Translation, which the regular reader (singular, I fear) may recall I absolutely adored in the cinema. Quite why I hadn’t got around to watching it is something of a mystery. Perhaps I was scared I wouldn’t like it as much the second time around, but I needn’t have worried. I still think it’s sparsely beautiful and boasts unreasonably wonderful photography. But I’m still most impressed that it manages to capture on film a state of ennui that, by rights, should exist only in one’s mind: a magnificent achievement. While I can see why many people dislike it, I’m not amongst them.
The redheaded lounge singer wasn’t a professional actress, but rather the real-life lounge singer of the Hotel where the cast and crew were staying at, and they thought her performance of the “Scarborough Fair” fit the theme of the film so well, they asked her to be in the movie
….which is pretty much the definition of ‘glorious understatement’ in that the point is exquisitely clear, and yet goes entirely unmentioned. Which is, of course, the story of the film.
Ah, happy hap… GIANT KILLER ROBOTS! ARRRGHHHH!
(only one person will understand that, so you’d better ruddy well post a comment, you slacker.)