A lot of people like this film, supposedly. I haven't actually met any of them, but I gather these people marvel at the subtle progression of the relationship between Bill Murray's world-weary actor and Scarlett Johansson's neglected young wife. To them, those moments where the camera sweeps back and forth, back and forth behind Miss Johansson sitting in her underwear on a windowsill, looking out over the soulless grey cityscape probably come across as poignant. They may even feel the home movie style montages of the neon-lit city streets capture the ambiguous atmosphere of urban Japan in a quaint, yet wilfully spontaneous fashion.

I suspect these same people could watch paint dry and glean intellectual fulfilment from dreaming up all sorts of dynamic subtext to enliven the gleaming Dulux finish as it dries to a subtle matt shade of 'gentle fawn'.

I am not one of these people. I am one of those philistines who found the music muzak and the montages pointless and cack-handed. The acting is commendable however and the relationship between the two leads is handled with charm, but these successes are hamstrung by the movie's biggest failing: it is a short film. It is ten minutes of drama, padded out with 90 minutes of fluff that only helps the audience truly empathise with how dull getting stuck in a hotel room can be. Though hotel rooms have mini-bars and cable television and, if you're lucky, a bidet. When I saw Lost in Translation in the cinema, I had none of these amenities and therefore came very close to walking out and/or slipping into a coma. I have never suffered such a tedious experience in a movie theatre.

So, in conclusion, if you are one of the lucky ones who can take a block of wood and then carve it into a fantastic figurine using only the power of your imagination, then I recommend going to see Lost in Translation: it is a big, blank block of wood, perfect for your creative talents. If, however, you go to see a film expecting to be entertained by what's on the screen, expect to be disappointed.