(Note: This might contain some 'spoilers, so if you plan on watching the movie you might not want to read this. This also verges into a rant a whole lot, so it'll be hard to read. Not that that's anything new.)
Last night I watched "Lost in Translation." Guess what? It was existentialist! Not only that, it did a beautiful job. It was existential and romantic, thus my kind of movie. (Let's see if I can make the summary as painless as possible). Bill Murray, the main male character, plays an actor who travels to Tokyo to shoot a whiskey comercial. Of course he cannot speak or understand Japanese, and the culture is quite odd and... flashy. I know if I went I'd be overloaded and burst by all the sensory input. At any rate, he is going through an existential/midlife crisis. He's isolated in a world that literally doesn't understand him, and he feels unneeded (and justly so) by his family that he left behind. The main female character, Scarlet someone I believe, plays a low-mid twenties newlywed who travels with her ditsy husband on business to Tokyo. Of course, he doesn't pay attention to her and has a rather stoned, superficiality about him that makes him rather annoying. She too feels isolated and unneeded.
So, of course, the two meet and befriend each other. I really liked the parity involved between the ~50 year old and someone half his age. He's been married 25 years, he knows how life is. She's been married 2 and is still lost and confused, still learning how it feels to be truly disconnected. I guess it goes along with the "major turning points" of one's life, when things truly change. When you're born, when you start school, when you choose/go to your college, when you enter a "serious relationship", when you graduate college, when you get a real job, when you get married, when you have kids, when those kids go through all the phases, and when you die. In each stage you gain more responsibility and freedom, but you also become more vulnerable and isolated. Disconnected.
It's when we become more disconnected that we question our purpose. At least, those who think about such things and are able to identify it. I think that's where this movie shines, although "shine" for this implies some sort of brightness which is far from the truth. Murray isn't needed. He states as much. His wife doesn't need him, his kids miss him but don't need him, he's essentially expendible. That's how I feel, and I think it's the root of the horrible depression I often suffer. I feel expendible. I'm interchangeable. It's not so evident now. My mother needs me, it's why I didn't commit suicide when I was dead set on it. My grandfather needs me, he's been living a life of isolation and loneliness for over 25 years since his wife died. And there are others, who miss my presence. If I died tomorrow, there would be plenty of mourners. They'd all move on, some would become closer to fill up the gap, some would meet new people, some would be crushed but heal in a few months. Only my parents would really be affected, because other than Carrie and their parents they don't have much of anyone else.
There is the counter-argument. Each life is valuable, a thread in a majestic tapestry. Although one string can be torn asunder, with each thread the tapestry unravels and loses its grandeur. Think of voting. Everyone has to think their vote counts in order to be motivated to vote. It's the same with life.
It's a delusion, though. Each vote is not important. Each life is not substantial Yet I think of Austin and Elizabeth Gilliam from last year, how when they left a silent hole was torn inside me and each day seemed a bit more empty than it had before. Perhaps as people leave your life these holes form. That's what drains the soul through adulthood. They're replaced, certainly. I've found Erin and Lauren and Meredith and Brie and Andy. I've become better friends with Lee and David. And Cory, moreso because Austin left. But I've also become distanced from Rachel, Kelly, Amy, and Elizabeth. There is an ebb and flow. The additions raise you up, the detractions take you down. I don't have the energy to pursue the ones who leave. Therefore, I'll end up with no one. Except my family.
Both my parents live quasi-unhappy lives. My father also feels unneeded. He considers himself someone who pays the bills and that's about it. He's worth more than that, but it's easy to see where he gets the idea. My mother keeps the house running because she's the only one who cares. If she didn't clean or wash I'm rather convinced no one else would. She's been on anti-depressants for years and has a hard time emphasizing with those who are depressed. It's somewhat of a foreign concept for her, I think. My father drinks for his anti-depressant, and while I'm sure he could recognize depression, he's too self-oriented to be of much use (meaning, I ask him one question and he answers it for 5 minutes. I say one sentence and he responds for 5 more. I don't mind, but his idea of communication and mine are a tad different). To sum up, they're who I don't want to be.
Murray and Scarlet's characters are what I don't want to be: unneeded, disconnected, and unloved. At the same time, though, I don't want to be them. I don't want to depend on another person for my fulfillment, because as I mentioned in a previous post, I don't trust human nature enough to believe that other person needs me for a very extensive amount of time. I need constant reassurance. And while it's not so bad supplying it for a month, a year, five years, it eventually wears on you. The need drives the person away. And you're left unneeded again. It's a losing battle. Either way, I end up unhappy. I can find temporary fixes, but there's never a permanent one. If only I was religious, I know faith would give me purpose. I want it to be real, though, and I don't see that as real.
That's the beauty of the movie. Murray and Scarlet, two unloved, unneeded people fall in love. It's sort of an awkward thing, Murray makes jokes and ostensibly doesn't take it seriously, but just by their manners you can tell it means a lot. He's in a cab driving away from the hotel at the end of the movie, after leaving the one thing the viewer thinks might be able to give him happiness. Then, he sees her on the street walking away. He has the cab pull over, he rushes too her, they embrace. She speaks in that tremulous voice where you're trying not to cry, and it's more real and painful than if she did. He whispers into her ear. What is he saying? That he loves her? That everything will turn out fine? That there is hope? They unlock and kiss. In the midst of hundreds of Japanese obliviously walking through Tokyo. He's too tall, or she's too short, but there's real passion in it.
Then, he walks away. He looks back and continues walking. He doesn't stop. He doesn't turn around. He goes home.
That's the tragedy. The beautiful tragedy. They need each other. They could have made each other happy. He's twice her age, and they're both married, but that doesn't matter. Technicalities. Yet he leaves her.
I find it beautiful. Painful. Remarkable. And I can see myself doing the exact same thing. Forsaking potential happiness because it's too hard, too elusive, too uncertain. I can see it for the rest of my life. Coming home from work, grading papers, getting on the computer, going to sleep, doing it all over again. The only way I'd be able to maintain contentment is if I meant something to my students. If I was a part of their lives, an influence upon them. Because I can see myself not being a part of anyone else's. I can see the opposite as well. I can see too much.
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