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Hello Peliplaters!
I watched Lost in Translation in 2019, and it stirred complex, indescribable emotions in me.
Fresh out of college, jobless and single, I found myself changed by my time studying in the United States. While the experience broadened my horizons, it also created a distance between me and my hometown. Though I still feel close to my hometown—perhaps more than ever—somehow, I feel like a stranger there. My identity hovers uncomfortably between a foreigner and a local, leaving me with feelings I struggle to express. I feel both lost and exhilarated. My hometown had shaped my deepest habits. Walking along the familiar streets, I'd instinctively patronize my favorite restaurants and visit the parks I used to go to. Yet now I see these routines through a different lens, colored by my American experience. With no one to share these feelings with, I immerse myself in reading, movies, and writing.
These experiences, as it turned out, helped me truly appreciate the brilliance of an actress in Lost in Translation.
Lost in Translation follows a chance encounter in Tokyo between Bob (played by Bill Murray), a fading TV star, and Charlotte (played by Scarlett Johansson), a recent bride. Weary after 25 years of marriage, Bob faces a midlife crisis, while Charlotte struggles with her new identity as a wife. These two Americans, both adrift, meet in an unfamiliar Asian city and develop a connection that transcends friendship without becoming romance. It was during their night out in Tokyo that I resonated with Bob's character. But more specifically, it was Johansson's portrayal of Charlotte that completely captivated me.
Charlotte appears melancholic and troubled. Through director Sofia Coppola's lens, we see how her body seems confined by her environment. Yet her eyes reveal an acute awareness of everything around her. Though her emotions swing between sadness and joy, she remains deeply connected to her environment, responding instinctively to each moment. Charlotte seamlessly blends into every scene—she can deftly embody sadness and promptly radiate joy whenever circumstances demand. She doesn't drag emotions from one scene to the next. Despite her sorrows and alienation, we feel her readiness to integrate into her surroundings. Her smile captivates viewers because we instinctively want her to be happy. When she's happy, we truly believe something wonderful has happened to her.
Through Johansson's performance, I've come to see "being lost" not as something frightening or alien, but as something novel—a catalyst for self-discovery. Her approach to being lost reminds me of an unexpected mushroom growing from heterogeneous soil. This mushroom may surprise you, but it feels perfectly natural. It might be picked by someone or vanish with changing environmental conditions, but whenever you return to that spot, you'll think: "A beautiful mushroom once grew here."
Plot-wise, Bob appears to drive their relationship forward. He constantly comments on his predicaments and proposes solutions, though his efforts often prove futile. While we easily sympathize with Bob through Murray's performance—because he excels at conveying stored emotions—we soon realize Bob is fundamentally pessimistic and that his positive actions stem from compromise rather than transformation. Unlike Johansson, Murray skillfully separates his inner self from moments in the film due to the needs of his character. Bob persistently identifies himself as an outsider in Tokyo and conforms to social interaction solely out of politeness. Though he participates in scenes and engages wholeheartedly with other characters, his face reveals a refusal (not inability) to fully immerse himself. We see in him profound homesickness—Bob is a character perpetually living in the past.
Through Johansson and Murray's portrayals, Charlotte and Bob are two souls fated to meet yet destined to miss each other. Many viewers feel regret about the ending, where Bob spots Charlotte in the crowd before leaving Tokyo, embraces and kisses her, then departs. I believe this is Bob's fantasy rather than reality. In that moment, Charlotte's eyes reveal that we're seeing Bob's imagined version of her—the real Charlotte would show reluctance to part, but not homesickness.
Beyond her widely acknowledged sex appeal, Johansson's talent runs far deeper—her sensuality is merely one facet of her multifaceted artistry. While she demonstrates awareness of this appeal through roles like Nola Rice in Match Point, she clearly values other aspects of her craft more. Throughout her filmography, she employs sexuality only when it serves her characters' purpose. In Fly Me to the Moon and the Avengers series, her characters Kelly Jones and Black Widow use it tactically. Such portrayals of sexuality are more technical than emotional—a tool in her acting repertoire. Like a superhero's powers, we can appreciate a character's skill without forming a deeper connection to him or her. (This explains why superhero films often face criticism for being "shallow"—they tend to emphasize abilities over character development. Neither approach is inherently superior; they simply create different kinds of entertainment.)
Next, to further illustrate my observations about Johansson, I'll review another of her film: Her. In this movie, she doesn't even appear on screen—instead, she completes her entire performance using only her voice.
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In life, although I come across as energetic to others, I spend most of my time alone. In my younger, more immature days when I idolized Steve Jobs, I deliberately cultivated a nerdy persona, believing it was a mark of genius. I was desperate to prove myself one. Later, as I matured, I realized that nerdiness wasn't something to aspire to—rather, it was something to overcome.
Her tells the story of an unusual romance between Theodore (played by Joaquin Phoenix), a letter writer, and an artificial intelligence named Samantha (played by Johansson). Through director Spike Jonze's lens, we witness Theodore's distinct brand of nerdiness. He moves with deliberate slowness, approaches decisions with constant hesitation, and prefers the safety of home to the outside world. Yet this same cautious man crafts the most touching letters. While Hollywood often reduces nerds to the marginalized stereotype that is not well received among the audience—the socially awkward genius—Phoenix's performance reveals Theodore's nature stems not from social ineptitude, but from hypersensitivity and emotional depth. His apparent slowness comes from needing time to process his intense feelings. When overwhelmed, these unprocessed emotions become barriers, much like Bob's homesickness. But unlike Bob, Theodore doesn't actively resist the present—he simply lacks the bandwidth to fully engage with it.
Interestingly, Theodore is the only one we see on screen, whether Samantha is active or not. As we watch him break free from his failed marriage and develop his relationship with Samantha, we can view his journey like a game. He becomes a character whose nerdiness fluctuates, and we try to help him find balance through Samantha. If his "nerd index" rises too high, our mission fails.
When you observe Theodore this way, you'll understand why Johansson earned acclaim for her voice-only performance.
Like Charlotte in Lost in Translation, Samantha responds with keen sensitivity to every present moment. Her understanding of each scene relies entirely on Theodore's phone—as she can only see what his camera captures. While this might seem limiting compared to Phoenix's full physical performance, Johansson's interpretation of Samantha actually allows for more freedom beyond the script. As a sophisticated AI connected to the Internet, Samantha can access all of Theodore's online information with his permission, including details not explicitly written in the screenplay.
Yet Johansson wisely avoids portraying Samantha as omniscient, which would have felt creepy. Instead, she embodies Samantha as deeply curious. She listens to Theodore with genuine patience, and her occasional excited interruptions stem from an earnest desire to know him better. This fresh take surprised audiences accustomed to seeing AI characters as rigid beings who can calculate endless future scenarios—and thus paradoxically lack any capacity for genuine surprise. This common approach led many actors to deliver stiff performances as AI characters. But does such rigidity truly reflect the intelligence of AI? I would argue not.
Now I understand why Johansson's performances captivate me so deeply. Rather than merely inhabiting a character, she creates a dialogue with other characters, the camera, and the audience—not through direct questions, but by inviting us to open ourselves to her presence. It's fascinating to notice how her co-stars are often portrayed as nerdy men, whom she seems capable of liberating from their social constraints with just a glance.
Lucas Friesen 
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Danny Varekai 
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