Tunisia, baby.
Meanwhile, half a world away, I saw yet another film about a rich girl's problem, made by a rich girl with problems. Somewhere by Sofia Coppola is very similar to Lost in Translation except that it is boring and terrible. There are many similar scenes: introductory panties, desultory staring at strippers, a press conference for a film, untranslated media events, nice hotel rooms, a message from male to female that the audience cannot hear. It was sort of like the scrapple to Translation's pork loin, a script made from the Post-It notes and index cards rightly abandoned in the preproduction of the previous film.
The movie is also horrifically miscast—does anyone actually buy Stephen Dorff as a movie star? Of course not, as you can see from his filmography. Stephen Dorff IS Johnny Marco and he's supposed to be a star—though the film doesn't tell us how big; is he Tom Cruise (he has to stand on a box when taking photos with his leading lady), is he an American Jon-Claude Van Damme (cheesy action flick, just like the one in Translation)?—who is sad for some reason. He has "nothing!" he says, except for a ton of money, easy access to helicopters, a steady supply of blondes, and a (blonde) eleven-year-old daughter who dotes on him. Indeed, like the strippers he associates with, she ice skates and does ballet and swims across their rented indoor pool in Italy while he watches. She also makes eggs benedict and does her own planning for summer camp. But then she cries because her mother is "going away for a while" and didn't say when she was going to be back. Then, and we won't say "spoiler alert" because the scene actually spoils the movie on its own by existing, Johnny drives in a straight line out to the wilds till his car runs out of gas, and then starts walking determinedly toward...something. Perhaps some undomesticated strippers?
Somewhere might have made a good twenty-minute short. To fill time we're treated to a full figure-skating routine, two full dances by strippers, an entire Guitar Hero song, and several extended shots of Dorff resting in bed, showering, preparing and eating pasta in his little residential hotel room, and driving his car. These scenes might even work had Dorff the ability to act rather than just behave. Somewhere Keanu Reeves is snickering because he's managed two facial expressions. Dorff only has one: slightly constipated.
Elle Fanning as little Chloe is better (how could she not be?) but she's actually not in the movie all that much. A movie with scenes of her all by herself or at camp or mucking around online or at her various lessons and hobbies or waiting for someone to pick her up afterwards or in school would have been somewhat interesting, because we could have seen her becoming something, making tiny choices that add up to adulthood. With Johnny all choices have already been made, so he remains a cipher—and we fill in the blank with that All-Purpose New Yorker cartoon caption, "Christ, what an asshole."
In other news, Tunisia just swore in its third president in twenty-four hours. All right!