The party itself is captivating, but it is the morning after where the impact is felt. Coppola and cinematographer Lance Acord capture the tussle-haired Antoinette in the golden dawn light, lying in her wrinkled satin gown amid the pruned grasses of her royal lawn. Then, to the solemn music of Squarepusher (a lonely song very similar to one used in Lost in Translation), we see the queen secluded and hung over in her quarters, while servants roam the palace, picking up empty glasses, leftover gambling chips, and other messes from the previous nights' exploits.

The feeling of the scene mirrors that of similar situations in Coppola's other films. In Suicides, for example, the biggest "party" scene is the Lisbon sisters' high school prom. The frivolity of the dance is a high point for them—an escape from the oppression of their overprotective parents. After Lex (Kirsten Dunst) and her date Trip Fontaine (Josh Hartnett) are crowned prom queen and king, the royal teenage couple celebrate by escaping to the school's football field, where Lex loses her virginity. But sometime during the night, after they fall asleep, Trip leaves, and poor Lex is left alone on the cold, damp field. This "morning after" scene—an unforgettable blue-tinted shot of Lex's gaunt white face as she wakes up alone—is devastating. What a contrast to see such a vibrant prom scene and then this tragic shot of a young teenage girl, deflowered and forever tainted by one night of passion, as she picks up her heels, tiara, and tiredly stumbles off the football field in the milky morning light.

Lost in Translation includes several "morning after" scenes. In fact, the film alternates between late-night escapades in the frenetic Tokyo nightlife and subsequent quiet, slow-paced mornings. Bob Harris (Bill Murray) is in a constant state of weary-eyed jet lag, and suffers after several nights of heavy drinking at the hotel bar. Charlotte (Scarlett Johansson) spends her mornings in contemplative, "under the sun" pondering—often looking out her hotel window or lying on her bed. Both of these souls embody the dynamics of "morning after" theology: there are limitless pleasures available on any given night, both good ones (as in their pure relationship) and bad (as in Bob's one night stand with the lounge singer), but all of them end as the sun comes up. So goes the relentless circadian burden: "The sun rises and the sun sets, and hurries back to where it rises" (Ecclesiastes 1:5).

How appropriate that the last scene in Lost in Translation takes place at dawn in Tokyo, as Bob must fly home and say goodbye to Charlotte. To the haunting music of Jesus and Mary Chain and the ghostly images of Tokyo's downtown infrastructure, barren in the pastel morning light, we feel the hurt of a chapter closing. The film up to this point has been, for Bob and Charlotte, an escape from realities of estranged spouses and disillusioned identities. The two of them experienced in each other a "high" in life—brief, fleeting, consciously terminal—and the morning after is when the true weight (the "other 90 percent") of life is felt.

One might be tempted to see in this "morning after" theology some sort of cause-effect moralizing. I think this would be a wrong reading. Coppola is not telling us that wild nights have unseemly mornings after, actions have consequences, or "living in the moment" is both a blessing and a curse. We already know this. Solomon wrote a book about it.

Coppola is telling us nothing new, and certainly is not teaching us anything (whether history, politics, or philosophy). Rather, she is portraying a truth that we all can recognize: after every party, there is a cleanup; after every joy, a comedown. For everything wonderful in life, there is a knowledge that tempers it—the knowledge of impermanence—and it weighs heavy on the soul.