STRANGERS in a strange land, a man and a woman meet, connect, then go their separate ways in Lost In Translation, Sofia Coppola's assured follow-up to the affecting intimacy of The Virgin Suicides.

Bob Harris (Bill Murray) is a lonely, disaffected movie star who wants to make more films but can't really be bothered. He accepts a gig where he gets paid $2million to go to Tokyo and endorse a brand of whisky in a series of adverts.

He doesn't like Japan, he isn't having any fun, he's not sleeping, but it's better than working.

Charlotte, played by Scarlett Johansson is equally bored. In Tokyo with her photographer husband John (Giovanni Ribisi), she is left to fill endless days and nights on her own as he's completely absorbed in his work. She isn't sleeping either.

One night, she goes down to the hotel bar and meets Bob. They talk - not in depth, just enough. They meet the next day and, before long, are spending time with each other.

Both are jaded and disillusioned with the choices they've made in life. Bob's got a wife and young kids at home, Charlotte's a philosophy graduate with no direction to follow.

In each other they find a kind of familiarity, something to relate to. Perhaps they can learn from one another, maybe even reconnect with their own lives.

In any other film there would be a sexual element to the story, but there's not here. Neither does Bob assume a parental role. Even when they lie down next to each other and drift into sleep, they barely touch. This is just two people trying to get by.

Of course, it can't last, and it's not long before Bob has to return to the States. But even before that, their relationship - if that's what it can be called - has changed.

Lost In Translation is an intelligent, pensive, adult film, graced by two superlative lead performances. Deliberately paced and blessed with a shimmering soundtrack (including Air and Jesus & Mary Chain), Coppola has fashioned an elegantly languid waking dream of a movie.