Marcissus’s review published on Letterboxd:
I always manage to get incredibly anxious and wary over the prospect of rewatching the films that I love. To the point where my favorite films intimidate me, they scare me. Because if I saw such a clear reflection of myself in them at one point in my life what if when I look back into them I can't see my reflection anymore? What if I changed and didn't notice? What if the love I felt so strongly before turned out to be just transient white noise? What if.
Ebert once said that a favorite film is one you can watch over and over again and continuously fall in love with in new ways. He was right and I am a fool. Always will be. After waiting an hour for a bus in the windy longing nature of magic hour yesterday and then spending another hour being strewn around on it, I decided that when I finally reached "home" I'd fall into another world, a world equally full of humans who gaze out of their taxis and buses and trains and planes with wide-eyed fascination at all the myriad passing lives and the iridescent lights of a never-ending city. My apprehension would be quelled within minutes.
I first saw Lost in Translation long ago, before I could ever be classed as a film lover, whatever that is, but it had never entered my mind when trying to think about what my favorite films were. It was as if it had glided over me so peacefully that I might have imagined the whole experience. Years later, at the start of the newest decade, I decided once and for all to make a definitive list of my favorites and that LiT would need to be revisited to ensure that it was actually the film that I once thought it was. I have never forgotten it when making lists since. And whilst I have ceased choosing favorites altogether in this day and age, if someone were to ask me on the street, at a party, in a corridor, at an airport, wherever, I would tell them it was Lost in Translation.
I thought for a long time that I would just not review it. How? I want to keep it short, I want to make it long, I want to be concise and I want to ramble. Perhaps the only way to truly get across what a film means to you, if at all possible for us, is at 3am after a night of drinks, winding down and staring into space with every sentence ending in ", man". Antonioni said that "A film that can be described in words is not really a film." and that's how I feel about it. But here I am writing words and staring at them. It only adds to everything that Coppola was channeling her inner Antonioni in this film. So then, here we are, where I ramble on about myself in futile hopes of cluing you in as to why I like the things I like.
This whole experience lasts like 10 minutes for me, but its placid undulating couldn't be more endearing. I'd just put it on repeat for the rest of my life if I wasn't so sure I'd become disillusioned with it itself. And that's a full circle I don't want to be a part of. From Scarjo's ass to the taxi leaving the tunnel this film flows over me creating vibrations and air currents that cut across my skin like a thousand tiny knives. This is absolutely one of the most magnetic and enticing aesthetics ever to be put on screen.
As for subtitles, read the title of the film people. The fact that there may be those among us in plain sight who actually use them to ascertain what was being said: absolutely disgusting. I let the credits soar over me as I so often do when finishing a film that depletes every last essence in my body, this time revealing a post-credits scene I have never even seen before. Ebert is always right. There is always something more in the distanceless shape of a film you feel you will never stop loving. “I wonder how many people I've looked at all my life and never seen.”
I've been a Bill Murray fan ever since I heard the quote on his Garfield negotiation — "What do they give you to do one of these things?" And they said, "Oh, they give you $50,000." So I said, "Okay, well, I don't even leave the fuckin' driveway for that kind of money."
"Bill would give you his kidney if you needed it, but he wouldn't necessarily return your phone calls.”
How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard. A review about myself, but that's all I can truly tell you about why I love the films I love. You wanna hear how good the visuals and soundtrack are? Lip dem. Melancholy never looked so good. Melancholy never felt so good. This film moves from staring at the ground as it walks to staring out windows with eyes transfixed on the boundless aether. I can't articulate a single fault I have with this film. If there's one there then I can't find it. I keep coming back and I keep seeing my reflection. Thank god I got through this review without talking about moving to Japa-