Watched Lost in Translation, Sofia Coppola's sophomore foray into film today. I loved her adaptation of the Virgin Suicides, but I wondered if it might have been a fluke due to the Godfather III debacle. Mrs. Spike Jonze wrote and directed this gently nuanced tale of two Americans cut adrift in the floating kingdom who manage to find a bond in their alienation. It's not a very talky or dialogue-heavy movie, so the weight of the story relies on camerawork, and the actors' body languange and facial expressions. Bill Murray is superbly cast as Bob Harris, an aging movie star, and the ingenue Scarlett Johansson displays a maturity beyond her 18 years in her role as Charlotte, Bob's partner in their romp through Tokyo. Coppola, exhibiting her genes, conveys Bob's jetlagged exhaustion by turning Tokyo's garish neon lights into watercolor brush strokes in the reflection of a taxicab window. As Charlotte stares out window of her high-rise luxury hotel room, the camera focuses on a lone skyscraper isolated from the surrounding buildings, revealing Charlotte's inner state of mind. It's subtleties like these that make films a joy to watch. I can't wait to see it again.