Lost in Translation (2003)

directed by Sofia Coppola

Andrea Yoon

When I was eight years old, I used to fall asleep listening to the soundtrack of Sofia Coppola’s Marie Antoinette. It gave melody to my newfound melancholy. My childhood was marked by these nights lying in bed listening to “The Melody Of A Fallen Tree” by Windsor for the Derby. Sofia Coppola’s meticulously chosen songs became the soundtrack of my pre-adolescent years as I already started dreaming of an escape from lonely suburbia.

Marie Antoinette was the first Sofia Coppola film that I encountered. The pastel world of Versailles became a decadent myth for me. I replayed the scene of Kirsten Dunst staring pensively out of her carriage window in my mind and fantasized that I looked half as romantic as her. It was the dreamlike mood that Sofia captured, supported by the film’s compilation score, that stayed with me.

As a child, it was easy to believe that I could one day be the main character of a Sofia Coppola film. I was a precocious child. I too could stare longingly from my passenger seat and make audiences find inspiration in my boredom.  

Seven years after Marie Antoinette was released, I watched The Bling Ring—the first R-rated film I experienced in theaters. “Crown on the Ground” and Azelia Banks’ “212” signaled teenage rebellion, or at least my fantasies of it. In reality, I spent my days stressing about academics and struggling with oftentimes debilitating anxiety in the privacy of my own bedroom.

The teenagers of The Bling Ring were also bored, but they went on adventures—if you can call burglary sprees that. They drove wildly through Los Angeles nights to Frank Ocean and Kanye West. Emma Watson’s posh voice morphed into a Valley Girl accent. Taissa Farmiga pranced about and wielded a gun flippantly. They were brazen and fame-obsessed while being disengaged from life and their actual community.

The Bling Ring came out in 2013, when I was starting to enter the peak of my teenage angst. During this period where I was hyper-aware of how others perceived me, I grew increasingly aware of my “otherness.” Classmates would compare me to Asian stereotypes in media. So often, Asian characters in Western media felt like caricatures. They were quiet to the point of being extremely odd and unsettling or unrealistically nerdy and quirky with dyed streaks in their hair. These characters were always one-dimensional and cringe-worthy. They were an afterthought to their white counterparts.

This was before Korean music groups, dramas, and films were in the mainstream to the degree they are today. Representation was lacking overall and it felt out of the ordinary that one of the pivotal roles in The Bling Ring was played by an actress named Katie Chang. Chang plays the ringleader of the Bling Ring, the eponymous group of seven teenagers who stole from high-profile celebrities, such as Orlando Bloom and Paris Hilton. Chang’s character, Rebecca Ahn, is based off of Rachel Lee, the actual Korean-American ringleader of the group. However, watching The Bling Ring, it was clear that Chang did not look like me or any of my Korean-American peers. Chang is either a quarter- or half-Korean and looks more ethnically ambiguous than the full-Asian character she represents.

Now this is no fault of Chang and I do not wish to invalidate her experiences as a multiracial actress in a predominately white Hollywood, especially back in 2013. It also felt silly then to complain about representation via a reality TV-obsessed teenage criminal. It was a small blip in my admiration for Sofia Coppola’s storytelling. A pause that coincided with my own frustrations as a misunderstood young Korean-American. It was a taste of erasure, a commonplace occurrence in Hollywood with the whitewashing of characters, such as Emma Stone being cast to play a part-Hawaiian character or Tilda Swinton playing a traditionally Tibetan monk in Doctor Strange. Erasure turned out to be at the forefront of discussions four years later during the release of Coppola’s next film, The Beguiled. The Beguiled is set in the south during the Civil War and while focusing on a uniquely female perspective during this contentious time period, it completely removes any context or nuances around race. The setting makes her all-white ensemble cast seem more out of place than usual.

Typically, the lack of representation and moments of whitewashing worked to create a bubblegum pink world where race doesn’t seem to exist. In Coppola’s films, beauty and femininity are portrayed as the camera lingers on girls going about their life. They lounge around, eat sweets lazily, and get dressed while dream pop plays in the background. They’re moody and complex and have a dazzling charm about them. These portrayals of girlhood were certainly more desirable and entrancing to me than the few characters that looked like me in films and shows.

My standard of beauty as an adolescent shaped out to be a Sofia Coppola girl—a beautiful girl afflicted by her own ennui and privilege—and she happened to be white (or mostly white-passing). I liked to pretend I existed in this world and I could almost believe it while walking around listening to my favorite band, Phoenix, or falling asleep to Julian Casablancas’s voice. I let Coppola’s naturalistic lights wash over me with her movie trailer cut just right to pull poignantly at every emotional chord. I transported myself to Coppola’s universe and willingly chose to ignore how out of place I’d look in it.

I was taken out of my Sofia Coppola dreamworld again throughout my college years as my “otherness” felt more pronounced. I went to a college that was less racially diverse than my K-12 schooling. Classmates and teachers often called me by the wrong name, substituting my name for the name of a different Asian friend or student. We were all interchangeable, and witnessing this conflation firsthand of our unique identities and backgrounds made it difficult to ignore that I was in fact not the protagonist of my own Sofia Coppola film.

During my first semester of college, I encountered Lost in Translation. Despite it being perhaps Coppola’s most acclaimed film, I hadn’t seen it in its entirety until over a decade after its release. Lost in Translation (2003) follows Charlotte, played by a 17-year-old Scarlett Johansson, and Bob, a movie star in the throes of a midlife crisis, played by Bill Murray. Both characters find themselves in Tokyo during a time of uncertainty and discontent in their lives. They bond as two strangers in a city unfamiliar to them.

The film stylistically and thematically boasts the best and most quintessential workings of a Sofia Coppola film. The iconic shots of characters in modes of transportation take new meaning as Bob and Charlotte themselves are not just literally but emotionally in transit. They’re jet lagged and lethargic. They’re distasteful of artifice yet star in commercials. They look down on superficiality yet one accompanies a spouse who is a celebrity photographer. They are dissatisfied and simultaneously drawn to each other.

The backdrop of Tokyo almost acts as a third character throughout Bob and Charlotte’s interactions. The city is ever-present visually. It washes the film in shades of natural blue hues that create a sense of bittersweet melancholy. There’s undoubtedly something electric yet nostalgic about the early morning sky. The characters are in shallow focus and the blurred cityscape adds a dreamy haze to every scene. There’s a sense that anything’s possible in a foreign city.

This foreignness itself is exaggerated throughout the film. Bob and Charlotte’s culture shock is emphasized by painting the Japanese in a strange and abnormal light. Their accents are repeatedly the subject of mockery or confusion from the two main characters. When Asian women get screentime, they’re viewed in an exoticised lens. Bob and Charlotte’s alienation is underscored at the expense of locals.

I finally saw myself in Coppola’s world and it was as an “other”—a foreigner even in my own land. Still, I didn’t want to criticize the depiction of Japanese natives in Tokyo too heavily. I knew that an argument could be easily made, especially in hindsight with an increasingly politically correct culture, that Lost in Translation furthers problematic Asian stereotypes. It features questionable undertones for sure but at the same time wasn’t Coppola drawing on her own experiences in Japan in her twenties? She was leaning into a specific worldview and highlighting the estrangement one feels in a new city. She does this effectively, turning Japan into a rich liminal space for Bob and Charlotte—two strangers who manage to connect despite their disconnectedness from the city.

Thus, my college years were marked with a sense of cognitive dissonance when it came to my love for Sofia Coppola’s rich sonic and visual landscapes. I constantly drew inspiration from the blues and blurred vibes of Lost in Translation in my own creative explorations as a student. I aimed to recreate the indescribable feeling Lost in Translation stirs in so many viewers. From the opening shot to the closing scene of Bob and Charlotte’s secret parting words, Lost in Translation had an emotional staying power that was elusive and evocative. As I entered adulthood, I understood what it meant to feel lost—a sense of sleepwalking as time passes by. I desired for a mysterious figure to break me out of my own inertia if even for a few ephemeral moments.

At the same time, I was starting to feel more resentment towards all the microaggressions I encountered as an Asian American in primarily white social and academic settings. My past insecurities evolved more towards annoyance. Could I continue living in my own fantasies of a privileged world? In what ways was I also ignoring my own privilege within the world?

Sofia Coppola brought a fresh and authentic voice, especially with her unwavering female gaze, to a generally male-dominated industry. Was there even an issue here at all? Did it matter that I made sense of the world through an auteur that both lifted me up and let me down in other ways?

I thought my undergraduate years would be this grand coming-of-age chapter in my life. I wanted to live a poetic life filled with spontaneous adventures and dramatic relationships for the first time. Like my teenage years, though, it ended up being an intensely tame period. Any all-nighters I pulled were to finish essays and study last-minute for exams. Listlessness and an intangible desire for escape still permeated my life. It was no wonder why I always related so much to the subjects of Sofia Coppola’s films.

Looking back, I experienced a push and pull of discovering aspects of my own personality while also diminishing parts of my individuality. I ignored interests and facets of myself to assimilate and fit in within communities. I grew in an unfamiliar environment but simultaneously ignored certain areas of myself. Like Bob and Charlotte, I longed for connection and purpose but didn’t always know how to go about it.

Eventually, this angst and confusion settled considerably when I moved to New York after college. Whether it was a natural part of aging or the effect of a new city where I could delve into my creative interests, I felt more sure of myself. The world had also changed—we were all more connected now than ever, and while systemic racial inequalities were still rampant, at least we were having conversations and sharing our indignation and support with one another.

During this time, I rediscovered my love for Phoenix, a French band from Versailles with long-standing ties with Sofia Coppola both relationally and as music supervisors and contributors. I flew across the country to see the Strokes, another band used throughout her films. I had finally escaped from suburbia, something my younger self would have been proud to hear. With my newfound freedom, I found myself indulging in the works of art that impacted me most as a child many years ago. I became more appreciative of these pieces of art that were introduced to me through Coppola’s own mixtapes and profoundly shaped me.

This ongoing chapter in my life coincided with the release of Priscilla back in 2023. Priscilla, based on Priscilla Presley’s memoir Elvis and Me, follows Priscilla from her teenage years through her relationship with Elvis Presley. Like Marie Antoinette, the film focuses on a young girl who is lonely and without agency. Their worlds seem glamorous from the outside but they live solitary lives and feel unseen despite being in the public eye.

From the opening shot, I was catapulted once again into Coppola’s endearing filmic language. Inserts of Priscilla applying eyeliner and stepping on a plush pink rug cast a soft gaze on girlhood and femininity. These daily rituals and details are not only pleasing to the eye but help center the camera on often overlooked female perspectives. Priscilla felt like the 1960s Americana counterpart to Marie Antoinette. The difference is in this one, the misunderstood girl comes of age and escapes from her golden cage.

I prioritized watching Priscilla at the New York Film Festival and a few weeks before, I eagerly looked forward to the release of Coppola’s first book, Archive, as well. As the name suggests, Archive is a visual archive of personal photos from sets, moodboards, and images of annotated scripts in chronological order of Coppola’s films from 1999 to 2023. Flipping through this collection of photos which starts from The Virgin Suicides and ends with Coppola’s most recent film, I reckoned with my own coming of age.

Marie Antoinette, The Bling Ring, and Lost in Translation offered me a bittersweet respite from my own life. I grew up with Sofia Coppola and yet there was always a part of me that yearned for more. A part that longed for more representation that didn’t leave me feeling isolated or erased. A part that desired to be recognized as an unique individual with a rich interior world.

I now realize that growing up, I ached for complex representation. I didn’t necessarily need positive media representation. Whether it be heroes or villains or even thieving LA teenagers, I can now see I wanted multifaceted characters that looked like me and understood my personal experiences and internal struggles.

As I sat in a theater with Sofia Coppola during a Q&A session for Priscilla, I actually felt a newfound sense of hope. I grew up with Sofia Coppola’s works and now as an adult living in a new city I could appreciate the changes in both myself and in society as a whole since I first watched Marie Antoinette. I used to find comfort in ignoring my own identity and found escape in the vibrant universes created by Sofia Coppola. Gradually, this became a more arduous task and I chose to push my conflicted feelings aside.

However, in the past few years, there has been a rise in nuanced Asian stories and voices. From Parasite to Everything Everywhere All At Once to Past Lives, I felt seen in ways I didn’t realize I was missing. The onus it turns out was never on Sofia Coppola to tell these underrepresented stories. It never should have been her responsibility and it’s beautiful that a time has finally come where there are more and more alternative narratives.

I can now take the pieces that resonated and moved me so deeply from Coppola’s ambient, lonely, complex female-centered films, along with parts of diverse films that explore themes of immigration and generational trauma where being white isn’t the only norm. I actually appreciate Coppola more now that there’s less of a burden on her works to encapsulate all feelings of girlhood, knowing her worldview isn’t the only viewpoint romanticized in the mainstream.

If I could rewrite my own story and go through my adolescence and young adulthood for a second time in recent years, I would tell the tale of a girl who felt seen by a collection of storytellers. Just as Priscilla drives through the gates of Graceland, I would feel inklings of empowerment. I would feel heard and known. I would feel just as beautiful as a Sofia Coppola girl, knowing that I am this time around.

Andrea Yoon is a Media and Film Studies graduate from the University of Virginia. She is an NYC-based designer by trade but an avid film buff and writer of both fiction and media-focused essays by passion.