Over at The Sigla Blog, Sinéad Gleeson gives Sophia Coppola’s Marie-Antoinette a brief but unambiguous mauling (“overblown, dull.”)Although I’m not that pushed to defend this glossy confection, I found its languorous depiction of Versailles as a sort of John Hughesesque high school mildly diverting. My indulgence might have been prompted by watching it on a drizzly Sunday afternoon (I refuse to pay late fees for Saturday’s DVD rentals), a time when critical faculties are susceptible to any old tat on the box… One, suitable ekphratic observation did drift into my near-vacant noggin while gazing at ditzy aristos reduced to ants as they floated up and down Les Cent-Marches: With a filmmaker whose visuals seem so intertwined with, even subservient to, their soundtrack, a neat (glib?) way of pin-pointing the nebulous sense of dissatisfaction Coppola’s films engender is to compare Marie-Antoinette with a pop song missing its chorus. You wait for the whole thing to catch fire. In vain.