Writer-director Sofia Coppola is in no hurry to take us anywhere in particular in her new comedy-drama Lost in Translation — and that is both its blessing and its curse.

Bill Murray plays Bob Harris, an American actor whose glory days as a ’70s action-comedy icon are long behind him — not-so-coincidentally like Murray himself (though he’s certainly had a good run for a former late-night TV personality; seen any Chevy Chase movies lately?). His star may have faded in the States, but he’s still something of a name in Japan; a whiskey manufacturer there is paying him a hefty $2 million to serve as spokesman for its new ad campaign, which is being orchestrated in Tokyo. But it’s clear when he arrives that he’s doing the work strictly for the money.

At the Park Hyatt Hotel, where Bob is staying, he makes the acquaintance of Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson of Ghost World), in town for the week with her husband, John (a wasted Giovanni Ribisi, superb in Tom Tykwer’s Heaven), a photographer who shoots rock stars (and don’t most of them deserve to be shot?). Since they’re both bored and lonely, the two start hanging out as a way to pass the time.

For a while, Lost in Translation is a low-key pleasure: Bob makes his commercials and print ads (one director wants “more intensity,” another asks him to be “more mysterious”) while Charlotte does the tourist thing (the city is colorfully captured by cinematographer Lance Acord). In the evening they meet for drinks and chat leisurely about life and their respective marriages (she’s two years into hers, while Bob is a 25-year veteran). Coppola nicely captures the rhythms of each character’s mostly uneventful daily routine, showing us just how lackluster life can be, whether you’re a 19-year-old ex-philosophy major with a seemingly bright future, or a 53-year-old sad-sack thespian in search of creative inspiration. Additionally, the ever-droll Murray — as likeable as he’s been in quite a while — has an appealing chemistry with the unconventionally sweet Johansson (who had terrible trouble finding a decent role after her early peak with Ghost World).

Problem is, once the premise is established and we’ve had a few laughs at the expense of the tackier aspects of Japanese culture (Coppola apparently spent a good deal of time in Tokyo in her early twenties), Lost in Translation seriously loses its footing. You’re thankful Coppola doesn’t throw Bob and Charlotte into bed together — that would have been not only predictable but downright creepy — but what replaces the usual romantic angle is, surprisingly and disappointingly, a lot of filler. They’re both interesting, bright people, yet their conversations are drearily pedestrian; they should crackle with wit and insight, or at least reveal something memorable about who they are, or what is possible in terms of true friendship between men and women when sex is removed from the equation. (“Everyone wants to be found,” reads the tagline on the film’s poster. But what do Bob and Charlotte really “find” in each other, other than a mirror image?) Considering how much they talk, far too much is left unsaid between them — and I’m not just referring to the vague physical attraction they share.

Coppola’s follow-up to her haunting and unjustly overlooked The Virgin Suicides has its share of affecting and funny moments (Murray’s karaoke version of Elvis Costello’s “(What’s So Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love and Understanding” is especially choice). I recommend it even though it has a weak and underdeveloped third act, as it has a wistful, tender quality rarely seen in movies these days. Still, while she hasn’t managed to escape the dreaded sophomore filmmaker jinx with Lost in Translation, Coppola has taken another step toward building an impressive body of work. I, for one, eagerly await her next effort.

Lost in Translation starts Sept. 19 at Landmark’s La Jolla Village Cinemas. For more information, call (858) 453-7831.

Kyle Counts is the Gay and Lesbian Times film critic.