Lost in Translation (15)

Sofia Coppola (102 mins)

Not very much happens in Sofia Coppola's Lost in Translation, but one emerges from it wondrously light-headed and spring-heeled. It's a lovely mood piece that depends on observation instead of plot, and on nuance of expression instead of dialogue. Set over a few days and nights in a coldly fashionable Tokyo hotel, it's the story of a brief encounter that is at once chaste and romantic, as tantalising in its might-have-been way as Wong Kar-Wai's In The Mood For Love.

It's also a sad kind of comedy, shaped and stirred around Bill Murray's deadpan clowning. He plays Bob Harris, a jaded movie star who's come to Tokyo to shoot a commercial for a Japanese whisky, only to find himself sleepless and bemused by the city's strangeness. He's baffled by his hosts, be it the overwhelming solicitude of the PR or else the hectoring of the ad director, who wants him to deliver the tag-line with "more intensity". Given that the line is: "For relaxing times, make it Suntory time," you can see his confusion. Mooching around the bar and catching himself in the hotel's sleek, reflecting surfaces, Bob realises his life has lost something - intensity, maybe - which he can't explain on long-distance calls to his wife back home. He seems to be a long distance from everyone.

"Are you having a midlife crisis?" asks a fellow insomniac in the bar one night. This is Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson), a recent college graduate who's tagged along with her fashion photographer husband (Giovanni Ribisi) on an assignment and who also feels that her marriage, even at this early stage, is drifting away from her. Without quite breaking into flirtation Charlotte and Bob strike up an instinctive friendship - they amuse each other, and perhaps recognise a certain loneliness that's not just about being abroad. Coppola judges the momentum of their relationship expertly, beginning with a tentative glance in an elevator before stitching together a few strands of desultory talk; she conveys the warmth of their connection but doesn't push it, and it feels more genuine because of this.

She also has an uncanny grasp of how to use music in narrative. Her first film, The Virgin Suicides, thrived on the woozy electronic stylings of the French band Air and featured a memorable serenade of Todd Rundgren's gorgeous "Hello It's Me". This time the music is even more upfront, whether as a shared joke - the hotel lounge singer slowly murdering "Scarborough Fair" - or as a subtle bonding agent. When Charlotte takes Bob for a night on the town they end up in a karaoke bar and sing for each other; just about my favourite sequence in the film is Bob's rendering of Roxy Music's "More Than This" sung in a low, quavering tone that seems on the verge of a full-blown sob. I've never been so surprised by lovelorn warbling in a movie since Frederic Forrest tried to win back Teri Garr in One From The Heart, directed, perhaps not coincidentally, by Sofia's dad. And, later, the cavernous boom of the Jesus and Mary Chain's "Just Like Honey" feels exactly right as a farewell to this dreamy Tokyo sojourn.

Preoccupied with mood, Coppola lets the film drift at times - she's definitely not afraid of a lull - but it's never draggy. Where some have faulted it is in milking the "funny foreigners" joke. During the whisky ad shoot, the director delivers long, voluble instructions in Japanese which Bob's translator simply passes on in a couple of words (ie "more intensity"). Murray's air of puzzlement is amusing, though it becomes less so in subsequent scenes of misunderstanding: a call girl sent to his hotel room stages a Bacchanalian display of sexual ardour, or the incomprehensible duologue which ensues between Bob and a slightly backward Japanese in a hospital waiting room. Coppola has expressed horror at the idea of this being racist, and while one can believe that she intends no offence there does exist at moments a trace of lumpen-tourist condescension - I am speaking perfect English. Why can't these funny little people understand me?

It's a misjudgement rather than a grievous fault. Tokyo's otherness isn't meant to be sinister, just opaque and remote enough to make these two strangers cling to one another, like shipwrecks. I didn't think Bill Murray capable of a better performance than the one he gave in Rushmore, but he surpasses it here. He is a master of expressive minimalism: a tweak of the jaw, a sudden flicker of the eyes, can suggest depths of longing or reserves of disappointment. His ramrod back and slightly delayed reactions are a comedian's tools, but it's his old bruised heart he makes us think of. The look of pure sorrow as his gaze follows Charlotte's exit from the hotel will stay with me for years. As for Scarlett Johansson, future roles may be glitzier but are unlikely to be more touching, and she will never be more lovingly photographed. Her real gift is her voice, as husky as Bacall's with a low, sexy laugh to match. "I don't know what I'm supposed to be," Charlotte says to Bob. "You'll figure that out," he replies. Johansson is on the way to figuring out how she might be a great actress.

Lost in Translation will disappoint only if you're not prepared for something low-key. There are no grand epiphanies, no dramatic reversals, just a comedy of disorientation with two outstanding performances, a terrific soundtrack and some brave silences. It marks another step on Sofia Coppola's hugely promising career as a writer-director: heartening to see that someone is keeping up the family's good name.