Last week, literary blogger Maud Newton wondered aloud whether Lost in Translation was really as good as its press and word-of-mouth suggested. I finally made it to the movie last night [aside: according to the terms of our deal, Terry, you are now bound to see School of Rock, and, we hope, report back here!] and can give Maud my two cents: yes, at least that good.
It’s deft and gorgeous. I can’t remember ever being so ravished and heartened by a story of, essentially, renunciation. Most of the reviewers I’d read emphasized the film’s delicacy, subtlety, understatement–and these are in fact its defining qualities. But this characterization led me to expect a sort of charming, airy souffl