Breakfast: half of a toasted banana nut muffin.

Preface: Rotten Tomatoes gave "Lost in Translation" a 95% fresh rating, which is huge. For once I fall into the other 5% category.

I saw “Lost in Translation” tonight. I waited a few weeks to see a free screening a friend had invited me to, and I’m glad I did. I would have been unhappy if I had paid for a regular ticket. God, I can’t believe I said that.

I had been so excited to see LIT—positive I would love it. A few friends had seen it and had raved about it. Then I started hearing about friends of friends who didn’t like it at all. What did these people know? They probably hated arty films. I brushed these opinions aside and vouched for a movie I still hadn’t seen.

My actress friend, K, fawned over the naturalistic acting of Bill Murray and Scarlett Johansson. Bill Murray gave the best performance, she said love struck. (I wish Bill would get a face-lift. No guy would sit through a movie watching a chick with such a severly lined and pocked face.) The acting didn’t blow me away, though I did love the part where Bill Murray was posing for a photographer.

Basically, I found the film boring. I didn’t get emotionally involved with the characters. They felt very distant to me. Why should I feel sorry for a girl (Johansson)who has been married for 2 years and has no idea what to do with her life? (Oh, and, suddenly her photographer husband seems too hip for her.)

Then there’s Bill Murray’s character. Poor “Bob” gets annoyed every time his wife calls. “Lydia” doesn’t have much time to talk because she has to deal with their two kids. And “Lydia” wants Bob’s opinion on interior design ideas for his office. What a horrible wife! These characters were not sympathetic. They came together because they didn’t really know who they were and were miserable. I didn’t see them having a special connection.

The cinematography was breathtaking; I’ll give Sophia Coppola that. However, there seemed to be an arty self-consciousness. I found it kind of cool in Coppola’s first film, “The Virgin Suicides” but it started to bug me in LIT. I believe this kind of self-consciousness lends itself to still photography. How many times do we need to see Johansson staring pensively outside of her hotel room window at Tokyo in her pink panties?

Leaving the theatre, the mostly industry audience was under whelmed. The friend I was with was also disappointed. If anyone really loved this film, please leave a comment stating why. Non-JS members go to TiffanyAStone.com to leave a comment.