I should probably recuse myself from reviewing Sofia Coppola films.

Years ago, I worked as a receptionist for six months at her father Francis Ford Coppola’s Zoetrope Studios. There, I occasionally watched the teenage Ms Coppola and her twenty-something brother Roman waft in and out of the Zoetrope offices — both of them sullenly beautiful and free as the air.

I was there when Francis Coppola gave his children a small film company of their own to run, the short-lived Commercial Pictures. I even watched as a large crane hoisted up Marlon Brando’s desk from The Godfather so that it could be hauled in through the windows of young Roman’s new office — Don Corleone’s desk was simply too enormous to drag up the staircase or cram into the elevator.