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Last night, the Museum of Modern Art gave Sofia Coppola a lifetime achievement award for her decades of work in film. First, a conversation with NYT film critic Elvis Mitchell before a rapt audience, and then an oh-so-downtown nightclub party. God bless Sofia — all those movies she's made over the years have kept us entertained. Throughout her lengthy career, we've laughed, cried, and gone to the movies at least — I mean, at most — twice.

The party report:

9:36 p.m. Red carpet set up inside nightclub. Unclear whether the line of paparazzi are real or hired. Since no one ever walks down the red carpet runway, we never find out.
9:48 p.m. An elderly waiter is walking around smirking, offering everyone Suntory whiskey on a tray. Oh, Suntory! Like in that "Lost in Translation" movie! I get it!
10:04 p.m. Weirdly, there's great heaps of Italian food everywhere. Miramax chicks dig in at the ravioli bar. I haven't seen carb-loading like this since Kirstie Alley's divorce.
10:08 p.m. Disgruntled media folk are spreading the rumor that Kirsten Dunst was the only "celebrity" who insisted that there be a VIP room, presumably so she could snuggle up with Jake Gyllehelanehnhall with privacy.
10:11 p.m. Harper's Bazaarette Glenda Bailey: still alive. Likewise: Jim Jarmusch's hair.
10:12 p.m. "The Hours" director Stephen Daldry has shed that classic Meatpacking District junkie-whore look. (Dermabrasion? Liver transplant? South of the border blood refreshening program? Must find out, do same.)
10:16 p.m. Short puffy man walks up to tall Mediterranean man: "Maer Roshan? Is that you, Maer?" In fact, this is the first party magazine nonpublisher Roshan has missed since the late mid-90's.
10:18 p.m. A shudder goes through the crowd: here there be Weinsteins.
10:20 p.m. Quentin Tarantino — now 39% less bloated — hefts gut up to the bar. Overheard from incoming man, clutching minicam: "I'm going to pitch my film to Quentin!"
10:22 p.m. Bartender to customer requesting water: "Sure: we have chardonnay." Guess he's seen that Mel Gibson/Jesus movie too many times.
10:31 p.m. Kevin Bacon looks askance at the cheese. (There's cheese everywhere! It's a dairy-phobe's nightmare. Due to the cold night and the long line at coatcheck, various assistants are going home with pockets stuffed with two day's worth of cheddar. Who says the film industry isn't glamorous?)

Giftbag: Feh. Someone should tell the giftbag people that puns are the lowest form of humor, and inside jokes are right above puns. Some "balancing foam cleanser," Eleni's shortbread with pictures of what I swear is a young Francis Ford Coppola on it but a reader informs me is actually Josh Hartnett in his "Virgin Suicides" disco wear (mmm, Hartnett snackcakes...), one paperback of Jeffrey Eugenides' "The Virgin Suicides" (giving lie to the phrase "you can't give it away"), one pair of the panties Scarlett Johansson refused to wear in "Lost in Translation," one bottle Marc Jacobs perfume, one copy of April's "Vanity Fair" (gack), one LaCoste sweatband, and, of course, one sad copy of the "Hollywood Reporter."