Sticks and Stones

My mother and father snuck me into Lost In Translation in 2003. It was a wet London evening, I had come home from school and was not very excited about seeing the film. I had homework to do, and I fretted about missing something on TV that night. But at 8 PM we went to the Odeon in Swiss Cottage, and sat down waiting for the room to darken. What followed changed my life.

Over the new hour and a half I sat silently, totally captivated by what was unfolding in front of me. Every scene was rich with colour and sound. Time was artfully divided between the sensuous (Charlotte at the Buddhist temple) and the practical (Bill on the phone in the jacuzzi). Space was divided between the crowds of Tokyo and the peace of the Park Hyatt. It was these decision by Ms. Coppola that ensured the film was so tightly knit and so well balanced.

Lance Accord’s cinematography accurately conveyed the required meaning of each scene. The warm lighting in the Hyatt tells you that the two are awake, but the dark lighting in the Hyatt tells you they are struggling to remain awake. The harsh sunlight outdoors signals the bewildering affront Tokyo’s rapid culture hurls at the sleepy Americans. The throbbing red lights atop buildings refer to the time-bound nature of their timeless connection.

The music direction by Brian Reitzell and Kevin Shields, puts you in place, and ensures you know how to feel about each scene. But by not forcing it down your throat, you have room to interpret the scene as you wish. And by introducing just the right mood at the right time (instrumental music while Charlotte travels in a bullet train) you’re saved from misinterpreting the scene. It guides you to understand what Ms. Coppola and Mr. Katz want you to see, while leaving you free to see something new each time.

These separate elements of the movie are difficult to extract from the movie because it works so well as an entity. Just as slicing life up into themes is unsatisfactory, slicing this movie into chunks does not make sense. These elements melt into the movie and affect each other such that taking them apart is only useful when presenting individual members of the crew with awards.

Their real achievement was not in excellent lighting or well-timed music, but in creating a movie that becomes a series of emotions. Their success is in creating all that was necessary to turn Lost In Translation from 105 minutes of film into a real week, in which real things happened to real people.

A parting anecdote: Ms. Coppola says she hounded after Bill Murray, and after leaving hundreds of voicemail messages got a verbal agreement. On the first day of shooting the crew wasn’t even sure he would show up. He did, and today calls Lost In Translation his favourite film. So do I.

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It has been said in the past that the assassinations of John F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King Jr, and Robert Kennedy stole hope, idealism, youthful vigour, and inspirational politics from the US in the 1960s. That has to be tempered with reality, because those three men were not the only idealists in politics but had JFK lived on, and had Robert Kennedy succeeded him, we would likely be looking at a very different world. The neoconservative mindset would likely not have been as prevalent, and government would likely have followed a more liberal course. The fictional Matthew Santos, and the real-life Barack Obama would have been mainstream politicians in this world, but history did not unravel that way; instead both men are candidates of change - with striking similarities.

In Slate V’s Life Imitates The West Wing Torie Bosch visits the fictional portrayal of a ‘Yes We Can!’ candidate and the not-so-coincidental similarities with Barack Obama. I am careful to avoid labelling things ‘best’, because such extreme phrases inevitably require compromise and future reassessment, but as I have said before, Barack Obama is the best candidate today for the United States, and as I’ll say now: The West Wing was the best TV show. What surprised me most about the video was that it refused the connection between John McCain and Alan Alda’s Arnold Vinick. Nevertheless, I hope the outcome of the election will stay faithful to the finale of The West Wing. A clue about what I mean: Find out who became Secretary of State in the Santos administration.

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Some of the earliest civilisations grew up in Mesopotamia, between the banks of the Tigris and Euphrates, which run through Iraq. Neighbouring Iran has its fair share of ancient history; Persepolis - the great city of the Persians is in south central Iran and is dramatically different to the image President Bush portrays of the country.

Modern Iran is caricatured as an evil state, menacingly stockpiling nuclear weapons to assault Israel and Europe. While the Iranian government should be seen this way, the Iranian people should not.

Like many populations ruled by despotic governments, the people of Iran should not have their name sullied by the actions a government imposed upon them.

James Vlahos of National Geographic took advantage of a new Iranian initiative to welcome tourists - even Americans - to learn about the real Iran. It’s a brilliant way to counter the propaganda from the US.

He visited Persepolis and Esfahan, the latter being an extraordinarily beautiful city. More Casablanca than Syriana. In Esfahan he chatted with locals, explored beautiful and ancient Mosques, and witnessed the real change happening in Iran today: his guide Maziar Rahimi spoke to him of “The young women wearing their scarves far back and more makeup. Change is coming.”

Mahmoud Ahmadinejad remains a serious threat to global security. His nuclear weapons program is not only real but must be halted immediately. However, that does not mean blowing up the parts of Iran James Vlahos visited. We already know of Humvees rampaging through ancient Iraqi towns and the rampant looting in Baghdad. This is what we must avoid. These countries are led by evil men, but they themselves are not evil. An hour speaking with Vahid Mousavifard, an ordinary citizen, an example of the real Iran, would make this plainly clear to all who deign to find out.

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She stacked the paper in a pile. Then lifted it, aligned it into rank and file, smoothed it with her hands and then against the desk. She knocked it once, then twice, then sighed at the mundanity of it all.

She put the stack of paper on her desk, and from the filing cabinet beside the door she retrieved the ring-binder. Expense reports, legal briefs, and research projects: it was her job to sort through them and file them all away.

Modern architecture gifted her a window, something her predecessors probably did not enjoy. The weightless clouds outside the window offered some relief. Absent-mindedly she let the stack of paper get ruffled as she opened the window.

The afternoon breeze was a relief, she lingered by the window, and to feel the liberating breeze a bit more, to allow her to escape from her stuffy reality, she removed her jacket and threw it lazily onto the chair. It slipped off but she didn’t care.

Outside a bird flapped its wings against the strong breeze - the breeze she found so liberating, it found oppressive -. It finally gave in to the wind and found safety on a tree.

Seeing the bird’s surrender, she too went back to the stack of paper, waiting to be filed away.

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Security screening was not as unpleasant then. There was just one check, a skim through your passport and boarding pass and then a plush seat, with a screen and enough legroom for even the largest of men. Nothing like today’s frisking, slightly erotic, and totally unpleasant ‘encounter’ with security.

What was not so easy, nor enjoyable was the crushing sensation as the mighty aircraft lunged forth into pale blue virgin skies. Deep breaths, vigourous inhalations by four house-sized engines pushed me deep into my seat, it was as if I was being restrained for misbehaving.

And yet I had done nothing wrong, and yet I had this terribly unjust pressure on my chest.

‘It’s just gravity’ someone offered. It was not ‘just’ gravity, but ‘just’ torture I exclaimed in my head. The serenity of ambient lighting and cool wafts of air conditioning were now violently drowned out by the roaring engines.

As we climbed, my two year old skull felt like it was shrinking without having informed its contents before beginning to reduce.

The wail of the engines was nothing compared to my wailing from the hideous pressure drilling directly into the centre of my head.

‘Five hours from Singapore to Bombay’ I thought. ‘This may just kill me’.

And so I closed my eyes, a warm salty drop sliding down my cheek as the angry plane continued to push effortlessly into the sky and into my head.

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