Sofia Coppola movies are best watched late at night, in pensive moods, when words aren’t as important as the atmosphere that surrounds them. Instead of language, Coppola tells stories through images, music and situations. She caught attention with 1999’s The Virgin Suicides and astounded many with its follow-up, Lost in Translation. While audiences heaped the praise on that Bill Murray instant-classic, they largely ignored 2010’s Somewhere, a film that’s less funny but, in some ways, more mature. The film’s box office gross was comparatively small (under $14 million worldwide to Translation’s $119 million), its star was little-known (Stephen Dorff) and critical reception reached dismal lows (“insufferable,” “calcified bore,” “a vacuous embrace of nothing”), but I’m willing to defend Somewhere. It’s a formally beautiful, conceptually tender portrait of ennui, regret and the capacity to change, and even if it’s not perfect, it’s an important addition to the Sofia Coppola canon.
Following in the style of Suicides, Translation and Marie Antoinette, Somewhere is inextricably tied to its location. This time it’s Los Angeles, or more specifically, it’s the Chateau Marmont—the landmark Art Deco hotel just north of the Sunset Strip. It’s where F. Scott Fitzgerald had a heart attack, John Belushi overdosed and Lindsey Lohan got banned for racking up a $46,000 tab. In other words, it’s the perfect location for a sun-drenched refutation of Hollywood mythology.
The disenchanted celeb at the heart of Somewhere is Johnny Marco (Dorff), a tan-faced, ruddily handsome guy who stumbled into fame. He speaks in grumbles, drinks beer before noon and sleeps around to beat the boredom. Whatever allure money and fame once held is gone with the wind. At the Chateau, Johnny wakes up when he feels like it, smokes on the patio and smirks at the teenage girls gawking from the corner. When he receives a text from an unknown number that reads, “Why are you such an asshole?”, he puts the phone face down, unfazed by any emotion that isn’t lust or flattery.
Twin strippers pole dance for Johnny, who lies in bed, jaded and practically comatose, and it’s a biting depiction of sex work worth comparing to that of the anti-feminist The Wolf of Wall Street. Whereas the dancers in Wall Street serve as eye candy, glossy and vivacious, Coppola’s depiction is inquisitive. Its awkwardness invites the viewer to actually see, with sober clarity, what’s going on. The music comes from a scratchy CD player, and on top of that we hear the twisting sound of the dancer’s skin as it slides against the pole. This isn’t sex—it’s work.
The tone shifts dramatically with the arrival of Cleo (Elle Fanning), who, like a young Mariel Hemingway, imbues the film with optimism and light. Johnny drives his Cleo to the skating rink, and when he watches her dance to Gwen Stefani’s “Cool,” something inside him begins to change. Nothing is spoken aloud but it’s there—in the music, the look in his eyes and the way she spins, alone on the ice. Her gracefulness evokes an almost platonic sense of innocence and her dance creates a meaningful contrast with the strippers that preceded it. “Where’d you learn how to ice skate?” he asks Cleo in the car. “I’ve been going for three years.”
When Cleo’s mom skips town without a set return date, Cleo is put in Johnny’s hands and gradually, their relationship turns into something semi-normal. They play Guitar Hero at the Chateau, she cooks breakfast and when a promotional tour calls Johnny to Italy, she comes too. They swim in his private pool and eat gelato in the middle of the night. As they grow closer, Somewhere comes to resemble a continuation of the male-female intergenerational bonding film which includes Bogdanovich’s Paper Moon and Wenders’ Alice in the Cities. And like those films, it’s about the girl as much as it’s about the guy; a perfect father-daughter movie without the sappy music and hugs.
Coppola’s trademarks as a filmmaker are abundant. She shoots action inside rooms from the outside, a technique that forces the viewer into the position of voyeur or outsider. She composes each shot—especially building exteriors—with the calculation of an art photographer. As standalone images, they evoke a thoroughly postmodern Los Angeles landscape and the mood that goes along with it. The soundtrack of Somewhere also doesn’t disappoint, including Phoenix’s alluring “Love Like a Sunset,” T. Rex’s free-wheeling “20th Century Boy” and Julian Casablancas’ “I’ll Try Anything Once,” one of the great songs of all time.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around,” Johnny says to Cleo, over the flapping noise of the helicopter. She waves back from the car, about to set off for camp, and it’s unclear whether or not she heard. Johnny returns to the hotel and calls Cleo’s mom. “Can you come over?” he asks, sitting on the floor with his face on his hands. “No,” she says. When they hang up, he cries.
Somewhere pokes holes in every inflated notion we have about celebrity, especially the kind that belongs to men who sleep with women, wear loose jeans and don’t respond to texts. Its minimalism is forbidding and its critique of male-playboy culture is harsh, but that’s precisely what makes Somewhere great. When Johnny finally checks out of the Chateau, he drives into the desert, gets out of the car and starts walking. He’s nowhere, but he’s going somewhere.