Lost in Translation is Dead. And We Have Killed It.

Does life imitate art, or does art imitate life?

Either way, the writing on the wall bodes ill. 

I've long believed that we are ankle-deep in a worldwide art crisis. Today, "art" is at an all-time low. 

This was just an idle thought I had—an unmoored opinion I felt in my gut—until I stumbled upon something a few weeks ago.

You may or may not be surprised to discover that not just one, but several YouTube "content creators" (what a sterile, unimaginative description) have used modern technology to isolate the previously, and intentionally inaudible audio of Bob Harris' (played by Bill Murray) final whisper into the ear of Charlotte (played by Scarlett Johansson) in Sophia Coppola's second directorial effort: Lost in Translation (2003) so that anyone and everyone can hear for themselves what he said to her in the final scene of the film.

And, naturally, Friedrich Nietzsche sprang immediately to mind.

Much has been made of Nietzsche's "God is dead," quote. There's a great deal more to it, but for convenience here it is, in brief:

God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him. How shall we, murderers of all murderers, console ourselves? That which was the holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet possessed has bled to death under our knives. Who will wipe this blood off us? With what water could we purify ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we need to invent? Is not the greatness of this deed too great for us? Must we not ourselves become gods simply to be worthy of it? There has never been a greater deed; and whosoever shall be born after us - for the sake of this deed he shall be part of a higher history than all history hitherto."

Nietzsche's indictment (who does he mean by "we"?) isn't (yet) a statement isolated in time—it remains an echoing iteration that contains truth nearly 150 years later. If "God" is dead, and if "we" have killed him, what have we done to live up to the "greatness" of that deed?

Believe in him or not, modern man has severed his historical ties to God—and the ensuing secularism has separated theology from everything else; where before, theology was tied up with all the rest of reality. And, as a result, "everything else" could then become indefinitely "split" into smaller and smaller individual parts of an increasingly fractured whole, utterly separate and devoid of religion.

As the majority of Western culture spirals into an increasingly secularized world, we citizens of the West either find this an encouraging trend, or not, depending on our own religious proclivities (if indeed it does continue). I have my own opinions about the good and the bad that have come as a result of the Enlightenment* era (the foundations of which were laid in the Protestant Reformation and—prior to that—the likes of Marsilius of Padua), but my primary thesis for this writing is that of all the injuries that could perhaps be laid at the feet of the world's increasing secular bent, art has suffered uniquely—and perhaps to our society's great misfortune. 

*Who named it thus? It seems that Kant's work could have pointed the way.

Because it seems to me that when we killed God, we also killed the part of our human motivation and impetus to create art. Art was elevating. Art aspired to rise above the mundane and menial. Art endeavored to bring order, and sense, out of the chaos of nothing. Art could demonstrate beauty, even if that could mainly be achieved by demonstrating the unbeautiful*. 

*I don't necessarily mean merely "evil", or even merely "ugly"—but anything contrary to "beauty".

Because we were no longer creating art to be close to the divine, we created art to be close with ourselves—a much lower space to dwell. It isn't just art—philosophy, science, medicine et al wandered down the primrose path of "Enlightenment" as well; and while it has borne fruits—modern medicine, technological prowess, Italian brain rot memes—these new ways of experiencing the mundane and ordinary moments of life influence our thinking, influence our behavior and influence our attitudes about ourselves.

I am not a philosopher, a theologian, a historian or an art critic. I'm just a fuckin' dude, so, this is just, like, my opinion, man. But nothing has more clearly articulated the exact degree to which art in our modern day is suffering than the crimes against humanity displayed for anyone to access free of charge on YouTube. And while that could mean just about anything, specifically I mean the sacrilegious work some people are doing to rob cinephiles of one of the most compelling moments in modern film of all its magnetism and power.

In looking for great and memorable scenes in film history, I stumbled upon—and nearly mistakenly watched—a YouTube video that spoiled the words that Bill Murray literally whispered into Scarlett Johansson's literal ear on the set of Lost in Translation. And, as Nikos Kazantzakis once wrote, "Once, I saw a bee drown in honey—and I understood." 

This wasn't the only video of the sort. Multiple videos have been made on this subject, "revealing" the final words that Bob spoke to Charlotte—shattering the appeal of arguably one of the most stirring movie mysteries of the past fifty years, tantamount to what was inside Marsellus Wallace's briefcase, what the significance of "Rosebud" was to the dying Charles Foster Kane, or the mysterious origins, and purpose, of the "deliberately buried" monolith lying for millions of years dormant under the surface of the moon.

And while there may be any number of YouTube "content" videos exploring each of these and many other unexplained movie mysteries that still endure year after year, few of them strike that same nihilistic gut-punch that the "Found in Translation" betrayal manages to wield. 

I knew a kid in grade school who used to revel in finding other kids who still believed in Santa Claus and went out of his way to dispel them of their innocence. 

He was the same kind of kid who would spitefully figure out how a magician pulls off a breathtaking illusion and tell everyone who would listen what the secret was.

Yes, there are even people in this world who will lure perhaps as many as two million viewers to watch a video that will deprive them all of the stunning, understated beauty of watching two wayward characters share a private moment of intimacy, surrounded by faceless strangers passing by on the street of a foreign megalopolis, robbing them of one of the film's central themes: that treasured moments of life where fleeting human connection can still be found between two people, despite living irrevocably separate lives, can still experience moments of pure mutual care and understanding which, paradoxically and with full awareness given the medium, cannot be accurately scripted—they can only be shown, experienced, felt*.

*This is a 115-word-long sentence; no, I will not break it up into smaller ideas for easier reading.

(Enjoy the final scene of the film, but for the full effect, watch the entire movie.)

I refuse to dignify these YouTubers who claim to make Bob's final words audible by linking to them. Seek them out at your own peril, and to the damnable misfortune of your misbegotten soul. 

I was blissfully unaware of these videos' existence until recently, despite some of them being nearly two decades old. To my incredulous amazement, some of them were even inching toward ghastly numbers of viewers who, apparently, will deign to watch something merely because it exists. Viewers who, seemingly, will acquiesce to lazy answers for questions that transcend verbiage. Who, from all available evidence, are so bereft of inner life and imagination that they would sooner forfeit an implicit invitation from a skilled director to lead them toward a guided cinematic experience of mutual co-creation so that they could brazenly just know with "certainty" what Bob really said because "I just couldn't make it out when I watched it, even when I turned the sound on my television up all the way for some reason."

The fact that these spoiler videos exist is bad enough. Even that a platform such as YouTube permits for these videos to be hosted for international public consumption is also a staggering indictment of our times. But that there would be hundreds of thousands of people who would engage with this vandalization of art intellectually, even casually, is a signal that large portions of our culture no longer believe in mystery; no longer believe in magic; no longer believe in nuance—and, perhaps worse yet, feel an undeserved sense of entitlement to the answer to every question—especially the rhetorical ones.

Frankly, I'm surprised the scene hasn't become a meme template for anyone's ridiculous fantasy of what Bob might've said. 

Oh.

Now, the film could be criticized for this creative choice. After all—it says something to film a climax of a scene where what the two main characters say privately to one another is not revealed to the audience. It could be argued that a scene directed in this way might only make sense in a "postmodern" context, where fundamental and traditionally ironclad rules about storytelling are dismantled, though hopefully in a manner that reveals deeper truths that can only be explored when conventions are bent (if not broken). 

Consider this famous scene from Casablanca (1942). One can quibble over details, but you could claim that the two scenes, Casablanca's and Lost in Translation's, are largely about the same thing. Don't take my word for it. Watch it yourself.

(Enjoy the final scene of the film, but for the full effect, watch the entire movie.)

There are differences, context notwithstanding. But primarily what distinguishes these two scenes is to what level the audience is included, and why. Notice, too, the sweeping forward-thrusting camera motion into Rick and Ilsa's private conversation. 

Imagine if the way the scenes were directed were reversed: imagine that we were treated to the line-by-line exchange between Bob and Charlotte the same way we are for Rick and Ilsa, and how the impact of the scene would be changed. Imagine what it would be like to see the scene between Rick and Ilsa—the camera capturing their whispering lips moving, their watery eyes gazing, but their exact words elude us—even if we can glean what is happening. 

Switched in this manner, would both scenes still "work"? Would they both still be interesting? Would they both benefit from being directed the same way? Or is it interesting—in the context of the progression of film history, and indeed perhaps narrative storytelling—that we have an example of a scene where two star-crossed lovers must go their separate ways with a kind word that we overhear; and another scene of the same type where we do not, though the emphasis of the scene isn't the words, but the emotion between them, expressed timelessly through the body language, the look, the gentle caress, and the short but still meaningful kiss that's shared, regardless of what their exact words to each other in this moment were? 

You could criticize Lost in Translation for not taking that leap with the audience. But you could counter-argue that Casablanca already took audiences there. You could argue that Lost in Translation wasn't the first to do it—playing with what the audience knows, or doesn't know, is one of the cornerstones of early film experimentation. But I can't call to mind a whisper as intriguing as the one Bob shares with Charlotte. Perhaps, if Rick and Ilsa had done it first—but they didn't. And if they had, maybe the artistic subversion for Lost in Translation would have been to include the audience in on that whisper instead, at the risk of YouTube content creators toiling away over editing software for hours to parse out Bogart's gnarled, smokey words: "Here's lookin' at you, kid." 

And that's a great line. But would it mean more than the mystery we held in our hearts about what he might have said, imagining it for years and years? 

You could praise Lost in Translation for recognizing that available emotional space for ambiguity, and leaning into it at the film's most pivotal moment—its climax—exploring that realm of uncertainty. 

For those who may rush to YouTube to look up the same scene between Bob and Charlotte and know, once and for all, what was said between them in their final moment together—is your movie experience going to benefit from that knowledge? Are you going to emerge from your room, re-entering your life, inspired by the words that Bob said to her, more than what you may have dreamed? Instead, have you not thwarted the film's director, deciding that you know better than them as to what is best for your entertainment? 

Are you also the kind who will bring your own bottle of ketchup to a restaurant because you like your steak with ketchup, regardless of what the chef may want? 

Who owns the film? The creator, who made it—or you, who bought the DVD for $9.99 in the Walmart bin in 2011 because you saw the movie in theaters in 03 and remembered there's a great up close shot of Scarlett Johansson's ass in the opening?

To be clear: I am not bemoaning natural curiosity. Curiosity is, actually, one of the intended byproducts of conducting a scene in this manner. If the scene did not elicit curiosity, it would be a failure! Curiosity suggests that the audience has an emotional investment in the lives and happiness of these characters. Curiosity is even the requisite ingredient that fuels the viewers' active participation in the scene, drawing us in, and making us imagine to ourselves, effortlessly—"What would I want to say to Charlotte?" or "What would I want Bob to say to me?" 

You can see these very subtle cues in the actors' performance in the scenes leading up to this final moment. In the shots of Charlotte, or Bob, you can see each of them thinking, and even preparing themselves for future regret:

What do I wish I could say, but dare not? 

What do I need to hear, but don't hope to? 

These are questions that the film, in its strategic subtlety, asks its viewers to ask themselves. If given the opportunity, and if we were Bob, what would we say? When we search within ourselves, what do we have inside our hearts that remains unspoken, but should be voiced? Not for anyone else, but just for the one person who you would need to tell? 

And if we were Charlotte, and if someone could tell us just one final thing before they left—what would we want them to say? 

What difference could these decisions to speak—and be heard, and to hear—reveal to us? It's the reason why we go to the movies—or at least one of the reasons—so that when these moments happen to us in life, we will have done the requisite prep work by watching a movie's rendering of the moment so that we can act meaningfully, participate with confidence and authority in our own lives. 

Does art imitate life, or does life imitate art?  

This is why, in the case of Lost in Translation, it doesn't matter what, exactly, Bob says. Not in the final analysis. It's the reason why any real answer to that question misses the point, and efforts to decode what the actor Bill Murray said to the actor Scarlett Johansson on set that day will forever fall short of a deeper and more intimate truth that the film is aiming for:

You need to say something to someone in your life. Could you live the rest of your life without saying it? 

These YouTube "content creators" are a blight. They'll peek at birthday presents before they're wrapped—they'll read the fortune before eating the cookie—and, if left unchecked, they are the same sort as the people who will throw soup onto priceless, timeless works of beautiful artworkin museums because (insert reason here). It's only a matter of degree. 

Is this what art has come to? Is defacing and ruining art now art? 

One may ask: why not? This example of so-called "creators" who vandalize art films is only an offshoot of a broader trend in art (or anti-art) movements that undermine creation, expression, imagination and beauty—a development that's been en vogue since at least the rise of postmodernism.

When what passes for art is a urinal on display in a gallery, then why not throw soup at the Mona Lisa? Why not re-write The Lord of the Rings from the point of view of the orcs? Why not reveal what Bob Harris says to Charlotte for 1.6 million viewers? 

There is hope, I think—but it has its challenges, and in part contributes its share of troubles to the state of art in the world today. With the advent of modern technology—phones, social media, yes, even AI-generated art—there's a net oversaturation of art in the market today. "Everyone" is an artist; and therefore, no one is. There is so much art flooding us from all directions that it's too much to take in. It poses a real problem, I think, but the benefit of so many human minds contributing to the outpouring of art in the world increases the rate at which new art movements are discovered, and also how quickly we may move on from old ones.

It could be that we rediscover beauty again. It may be that we reinvent mystery, storytelling, subtlety and craft. It may be that we move on from this casual approach to not just art, but to life, and reinvest again in vocations that preoccupy our entire lives; immersing ourselves in the tremendous work of the masters who came before and developing a coherent vision of where to go next, creatively. 

That begins at an individual level—the genius among a million (or a billion) who sees what's next, and brings their audience there with them. 

We may even someday resurrect God, after having killed him.