Sofia Coppola is by no means a universally beloved filmmaker, but there were a few years there where she was pretty damn close to being one. Her first two features, The Virgin Suicides and Lost in Translation, captured a certain youthful zeitgeist; as a tastemaker, Coppola effortlessly spins an atmosphere of pretty, hazily lit wistfulness that one wishes one could just bottle and spray all over oneself while listening to Moon Safari on vinyl (or, barring that, just some Marc Jacobs perfume).
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