Lost In Translation & Her: The Beauty of Falling Out of Love

What is the first movie you remember watching? No, I'm not talking about Sharkboy and Lavagirl, Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. Instead, when I ask this question I envision the homemade videotapes of my family’s first vacation, even though I was too young to remember the actual moments. 

Videos of families, friends, and weddings that capture true happiness occurring in real time and that rival the highest produced blockbuster in terms of immersion. I believe the greatest films are the ones that serve as emotional time capsules—movies that capture exactly how a director felt at the moment of creation. Few films achieve this as intimately as Lost in Translation by Sofia Coppola and Her by Spike Jonze. More than just beautiful, they feel like personal confessions; raw and deeply reflective works of art. When viewed together, they form an unspoken dialogue between the two directors who once shared a life, offering a rare glimpse into how filmmakers turn love, loss, and heartbreak into cinema.

To paint a picture of their relationship, we have to go back to the late 1990s, when Sofia Coppola and Spike Jonze were two young creatives on the rise. Coppola, the daughter of legendary filmmaker Francis Ford Coppola, had spent years searching for her own artistic voice, while Jonze was making waves in the world of music videos and experimental filmmaking. They originally met on the set of Sonic Youth’s “100%” music video in 1992 and later married in 1999, stepping into a world where their personal and professional lives were deeply intertwined. But as their careers flourished, their relationship quietly unraveled. Four years later, their marriage ended—just as Lost in Translation was being released, a film that, to many, felt like Coppola’s way of processing the dissolution of their love. A decade later, Jonze would respond with Her, a film that explored heartbreak and the lingering presence of love long after it’s gone.

Released the same year as her divorce from Spike Jonze, Lost In Translation follows Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson), a young woman in Tokyo who feels emotionally disconnected from her husband, John (Giovanni Ribisi), a busy and self-absorbed photographer. While John immerses himself in his work, Charlotte wanders through the city, unsure of her place—not just in Tokyo, but in her own life and marriage. 

The emotional core of Lost In Translation lies in this sense of isolation—a feeling that seems to echo Coppola’s own experiences during her marriage to Jonze. Even while surrounded by artists and creatives, she still felt unseen, much like Charlotte, who becomes disconnected from both her husband and the world around her. John embodies a particular sense of emotional distance; he is present but inattentive, absorbed by his work and the social circles that come with it. His character not only resembles Jonze physically, but his mannerisms, distracted conversations, and failures to recognize Charlotte’s loneliness hint at a deeper, more personal inspiration. Rather than portraying their relationship through overt conflict, Coppola captures a more subtle,  slower realization that love can fade, not through dramatic fights, but through the quiet erosion of intimacy. 

Tokyo itself becomes a metaphor for Charlotte’s emotional state. Despite its beauty, it feels alienating and overwhelming, mirroring how Charlotte experiences her marriage. She finds solace in a fleeting yet profound connection with Bob Harris (Bill Murray), an aging actor also struggling with disillusionment. Their relationship, while not conventionally romantic, represents a moment of understanding—something Charlotte seems to lack in her marriage.

More than just a story of loneliness, Lost in Translation is a reflection on feeling unseen in a relationship. Coppola doesn’t depict love as something explosive or dramatic; instead, she highlights its quiet unraveling—the way two people can be in the same room yet feel worlds apart. By the film’s end, Charlotte hasn’t necessarily "fixed" anything, but she’s found clarity in recognizing the emotional distance that was always present.

But what happens after that realization? If Lost in Translation captures the gradual breakdown of a relationship, Her examines the aftermath—the lingering presence of love long after it has ended. A decade after his divorce from Coppola, Spike Jonze released a film that evokes a personal reflection on love, loss, and self-discovery. Only this time, it’s not about feeling unseen in a relationship—it’s about struggling to let go of a love that once defined you.

At the center of the story is Theodore Twombly (Joaquin Phoenix), a lonely, introspective man in the midst of a painful divorce from his wife, Catherine (Rooney Mara). Though their marriage is over, Theodore is unable to move on, clinging to the memories of what once was. He spends his days ghostwriting love letters for strangers—expressing deep, poetic affection for others while struggling to articulate his own emotions. His job is symbolic of his emotional state: he understands love in theory but struggles with it in reality.

Then, Samantha enters his life. Voiced by Scarlett Johansson, Samantha is an advanced AI system designed to be a perfect companion. Unlike Catherine, she is always present, always engaged, always fascinated by Theodore. Their relationship unfolds in an intimate, effortless way, fulfilling his need for connection. But as their bond deepens, Samantha begins to evolve—growing into something beyond what Theodore can comprehend. Eventually, just like Catherine, she leaves.

Johansson’s presence in both films becomes a symbolic link between Coppola and Jonze’s personal perspectives on their shared relationship. In Lost In Translation, she serves as a vessel for Coppola’s emotions, embodying the quiet loneliness of feeling unseen. In Her, she takes an entirely different role, this time representing Jonze’s longing for love that no longer exists. Johansson’s role shifts from a physically present but emotionally distant wife to an intangible, unattainable love. She acts as a conduit for how both directors felt at different points in their relationship. 

At their core, Lost in Translation and Her are more than just two beautifully crafted films—they are a cinematic dialogue between two filmmakers who once shared a life. Through quiet moments of loneliness and fleeting connections, Coppola and Jonze each capture their own perspectives on love: one of the pain in being unseen in a relationship, the other focusing on the ache of losing someone who once meant everything. Though neither film directly states its origins, the emotions behind them feel undeniably real. 

There is something universally resonant about films that don’t just tell stories, but feel lived in—ones that capture the raw, unfiltered emotions of their creators. Perhaps that is what makes a film truly great—not just its cinematography, characters, or sound design, but its ability to serve as an emotional time capsule, a reflection of the filmmaker’s own journey. Maybe that's why Lost In Translation and Her continue to linger in my mind: because even though they are stories about Coppola and Jonze’s past, they remind me of my own experiences of love, loss, and the bittersweet passage of time.