Sofia Coppola
Somewhere

Cigarette, glass, cigarette, lap dance, black Ferrari, cigarette, party, cigarette, black Ferrari, press conference, stupid friend, cigarette, party, black Ferrari, anonymous SMS, cigarette, breasts, butts, winks, cigarette, cigarette, cigarette. A daughter, cigarette, persecution mania, anonymous SMS, stupid friend, glass, cigarette. Trip to Italy, return, cigarette, a daughter, a daughter, a daughter. The daughter goes to summer camp and he definitively realizes how much of an asshole he is.

For better or worse, these are the slices of life that unfold in Johnny Marco's (Dorff) story, a Hollywood star emptied by excess and success. For him, Coppola has built the usual golden cage (as for the protagonists of Lost in Translation and Marie Antoinette): a well-known hotel in Los Angeles infested with parasite-type fake snob hippies and starlets looking to earn by stripping. Soon enough, this situation that the average person dreams of becomes an ice sheet for the protagonist, who literally falls asleep in front of young ladies with breathtaking forms or fans seeking understanding. Marco has a major problem, he does not communicate. He lives by inertia, waiting for events that only bring him more money, more luxuries, more women. A vicious and ungovernable circle, well summed up by the initial fixed-camera scene: our protagonist driving in circles on an asphalt ring in his black Ferrari.

To break this anguishing apathy, where everything that moves is human coldness, is the little match of his young daughter, Cleo (Elle Fanning), who enters the scene gently and, by doing normal things, gives her father a little bit of human warmth. Like Murray and Johansson in Lost in Translation, Dorff and Fanning also seem to build a relationship founded on elective affinities and small moments: breakfast she prepares, a bath in a luxurious suite pool at the Duca d’Aosta provided by him, the only situation in which they seem to flourish.

The few words they exchange are enough to create a minimum sense of comfort and affection: Marco practically only forms coherent sentences with his daughter, despite his obvious unpreparedness for the role of a father, and the banality he mutters is nonetheless well received by the daughter, who needs attention as well. For the rest of the events he is involved in, either he lives in silence or seems caught off guard by others' statements, as if he is perpetually dazed. His responses are typically forced smiles or grimaces.

These small intimate moments are interrupted when Cleo must leave for summer camp. For her, the perpetual pain of separation from her parents emerges. Johnny and his wife are separated and overwhelmed by commitments. Marco reacts by apologizing and, in the last scene with pathetic symbolic value, by giving everything the middle finger.

This is the film.

What works?

Somewhere is a shoegaze film (as are all of this director’s films): rarefied and personal, offering moments experienced by the protagonist recounted realistically and voyeuristically. I think of a scene – fixed camera – with Marco shown smoking and drinking absentmindedly. A natural interpretation of the role by Dorff in every circumstance. The same can be said for the very young Fanning, the typical pale blonde face so beloved by Coppola. The narration, based almost exclusively on fixed-camera scenes or single takes, perfectly conveys the fragility of the protagonists' lives: enclosed environments, illuminated by interesting lights that give the narrative a yellow tint, seem the ideal setting for this type of story. Outdoors, the raw essentiality of the intersections and the main California roads do an excellent job of inserting two perfect intruders into a sun-scorched daily life, somewhat in the style of early Spielberg in The Duel. Overall, the scenes captured on film are all small occurrences that have the strength of vivid memories of a dream. The soundtrack (especially the themes) solidifies this narrative structure based essentially on a minimalist framework, wherein these details make the difference, applied as they are to slice of life moments of pure everydayness in many cases. The overall atmosphere is reminiscent of listening to, say, some tracks by My Bloody Valentine. Here, the resistances of human beings compassionately refusing to fully surrender to loneliness and alienation are staged.

What doesn’t work?

The theme. Because it's the same old theme. Changing characters and situations, the contents are always those of the other films. I again reference the films dearest to me, which are Lost in Translation and Marie Antoinette. I spoke of golden cages, of opulence that condemns to isolation, of the search for human contact at all costs, of elective affinities. A situation always resolved with almost. In the end, there's the usual satisfaction of having been able to draw the most – though not everything – from that one in a billion person: the right person. Enjoying what could be had, those moments that will leave something inside the protagonists.

The ending. Just like a discount cinema's, honestly avoidable. The best ending would have been the initial scene.

The extras. From Del Toro to the overhyped Ventura, it was all damn avoidable. It would have been enough to cut these total five minutes for the story to have more credibility. Paradoxically, the presence of these characters makes Marco and his daughter's story less real and interesting. A matter of money, oh well.

And so?

An auteur film; an intensity conveyed by Coppola that I always appreciate; an overall atmosphere that is savorable for its tender deceit, for its cruelty, in a way (the protagonists are condemned to live a life they do not want); an underlying disillusionment that well expresses the globalized angst; the importance of the individual, the human being, whoever they are.

A film somewhat like the director's others, offering pearls of excellent cinema on a canvas that has gotten a bit tiresome. There, one appreciates the aesthetics and the mood more than the content. They could have chosen any other lack of communication, but it's the same old story. There's a lack of freshness for a definitive leap in quality, already missed with Lost in Translation, profound and genuine, but full of naivety.

Transition?