I am slowly discover the all fimography by Jim Jarmusch, and I am getting addicted to his directory style. We live in a overwhelming world bombarded by information, we are overstimulated. We try to escape at any cost to boredom. We are alchololic, drugged, nymphomenia, hypocrats

Are our thoughts really lost in translation, or are we simply lost within ourselves? We often feel misunderstood, when in truth we’re unsure of who we are. The film traps us in an eternal limbo of formalities, duties, and tiny absurdities—like the burgundy furniture Bob’s wife faxes across the ocean. We keep searching for an idyllic reality to fill the fragile shape we’ve sculpted for ourselves.

A small details really stroke me: there are few scenes where the main protagonist is struggling to freely express themself to the dear one - respectively Scarlet to her mother, and Bob to his wife. And in both case, they are put on hold from the other side, like we are deaf to listen other people's scream for help. What struck me most is how the film shows our inability to speak honestly to the people closest to us. Charlotte calls her mother and is met with indifference; Bob reaches out to his wife and is placed on hold. Their voices travel across continents, yet they remain unheard. It’s as if everyone is deaf to each other’s quiet cries for help. 

What the movie conveyed to me is that we often get lost in empty words, and we do not really observe.  A kind smile, a sigh, can tell you ten folds what a voice message or 4 minute long message can express. We dream of a second life, yet we cling to the tight suit we’ve tailored around our fears. Coppola urges us to notice the small, fleeting moments that loosen that knot.

And perhaps that’s why the ending remains enigmatic. It refuses to translate itself, because some connections aren’t meant to be explained—only felt. What Bob whispers isn’t important; what matters is that, for a brief instant, they understood each other without needing to be understood by anyone else.