It took some time to convince Scarlett Johansson that a lingering shot of her bottom, encased in sheer, pink pants, was categorically the only way that director Sofia Coppola could open Lost in Translation, officially the hottest film of next year. Johansson had reservations. ‘I really didn’t want to do the sheer underwear,’ she says. She’s not being coy about it. Coy isn’t in her repertoire. It doesn’t go with her voice, which is low, sardonic, fag-filled. ‘I told Sofia. I said, I’ll wear underwear, if it isn’t sheer. I had to wear underwear, like, the whole movie. It became very easy for me to trounce around in my underwear, in front of a large group of Japanese men. A skill I probably won’t utilise again, admittedly. But sheer… sheer was… different.’
Coppola talked Johansson round. She wanted sheer pink underwear. She’d written precisely those pants into the script. She knew which brand she wanted. Coppola’s an aesthete. These kind of things aren’t negotiable. And in the end, after Coppola had modelled the pants personally, and Johansson had admired the way they looked on her director’s minuscule frame, she agreed.
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