Finally

Lost In Translation is very good, made me very sad, very nostalgic, and did nothing for current moodiness but reflect it back to me. I'm so happy this movie exists, and that it simply couldn't be made by a man. Thank you Sofia.

She was there afterwords for a QandA -- she is very small and calm, and obviously had much better things to do than reflect in front of an audience consisting mostly of Conde Nast n'er do wells (including one fabulous woman in stripes who executed a fashion hybrid of Willy Wonka, Nefertiti and The Cat and the Hat with grave abandon). My take is that the film is autobiographical, I had a sinking feeling that Giovanni Ribisi was a stand in for her husband (Spike Jonze) but perhaps I'm reading too deeply.

Regardless, the mood of the film was almost destroyed by a cocktail party of well-heeled litterati (seriously -- my Asics were rather gauche at this affair) consuming noveau asian tidbits over wasabi peas, but the bar was open, so my senses were shut. Lovely.