somewhere (2010) dir. sofia coppola
Johnny Marco, an indulgent movie star drunk off success and the wiles that accompany, fame, fortune, and lady friends, drives in a long loop in a fast, foreign car on a barren track before getting bored with it, exiting the car and standing beside it with a tangible “what’s next?” emptiness. This opening scene encapsulates who this character is without a word as every introduction strives to. We, then, watch as he engages with the life he’s constructed: living in the infamous Chateau Marmont, laying front row to his room serviced strip show, numb as if it were a marathon of reruns, their routine choreographed, calculated and apparently, slumber-inducing.
He wakes up in the morning and gets ready for nothing, chain smoking cigs from his balcony to the hotel cafe as if on permanent vacation. He greets girls, who coyly flash looks his direction, with an affirmative nod: “yes I’m who you think I am”. He drives around Los Angeles with no aim, catching the eye of another woman, the twinkle of her teeth, at a red light, before engaging in a one-sided car pursuit as she rides home, a microcosm of his insatiable hunt. He eye fucks three more ladies in his hotel hallway before knocking a few beers back on his suite’s couch. Then another show from the exotic dancing duo. A nothing of a day, lonely and uneventful. Sofia builds this hollow atmosphere. There’s no music. Shots are still and long. We observe and we feel the metaphoric negative space. “It looks fun but it ain’t”. The attributes of the American Dream we’ve all been taught to yearn for make up our protagonist’ nightmare.
We meet his daughter, Cleo, with the writing of her name on his cast (earned falling down the stairs during a drunk night with “buddies” and “arm candy”). He takes her to ice skating and she performs for his approval, juxtaposed with the twin strippers from the night prior who frequent his room when summoned. It’s clear he hasn’t been the most present father, preoccupied with his proclivities. He drops her off and returns to a party in his suite, unbeknownst to him. He shrugs it off as occupational hazard, making his rounds before settling in a corner by himself, an alien to his own life. Who are these people? Why are they here? Even when around “community” he seems like a shell of himself. He stumbles upon a girl who suits him, pretty enough, hitting her with his patented pickup line, “I’m Johnny Marco”, before falling asleep mid-“pussy chow down”
Then much to his surprise, Cleo is placed under his care for more than the mandated 3 hour daddy-daughter time he seems to be used to. He’s forced to actually be a father. It’s more than non stop video games and whisking her around the celebrity life in Italy as he does press for his new movie, her being his +1 in big suites and at award shows. Sofia has Elle Fanning take care of him more than he does her, not only through the scenes of her handily making them breakfast and dinner but by waking him up from his sleepwalk. She is the meaning he lacks.
Sofia utilizes a meticulous repetition, drawing the days out. By doing so, she bogs us down with the submerged dread of his everyday, dismantling what, on the surface, looks like a coveted lifestyle. This method works in the inverse too as it cements the difference Cleo ’s presence makes: their days together full of life and color even though its much more mundane then the never-ending party of a life he’s used to. This slow pace is essential: it breeds the space for the trademarked melancholy that Coppola has become famous for. She lands the plane a bit on the nose with her buddhist-coded abandon material possessions ending but a bit of cheese is always okay with me.
4/5 escape
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