My feelings for Sofia Coppola’s work can best be described as lukewarm with a pinch of salt. I’m one of three people in the entire world that didn’t leave the theater drooling when Bill Murray whispered sweet nothings into Scar-Jo’s ear in Tokyo. We meet twice a year to commiserate and we even have laminated membership cards. But put that knife down crazy, there are things I love and respect about her. I admire her insane attention to detail and ability to create a world even if at times that world is a bit too pretentious for me (See: last year’s Somewhere). Dorff, you fancy huh? There’s no denying that her films are stunningly beautiful and though my hatred for Marie Antoinette is especially strong, I can admit that this movie is dripping with beauty like the most perfect freshly frosted Billy’s cupcake. The hair, costumes, and sets are ridiculous (in a good way) and so well executed. I’ll even let it slide that you have a pair of baby blue Chuck Taylors in a shot (they debuted in 1917). You’re sneaky and clever like that sometimes and I like that. Hey, you’re fiance’s band is not bad either. Truce?
