My nose dripped without ceasing. I had no tissues at the ready, and my purse was a new one -- too new to contain an errant coffee shop napkin. And yet I could not leave my seat for the lobby, where the napkins were plentiful, so riveting was Letters From Iwo Jima. Thusly did my tank top become my de facto handkerchief. I'm not proud, but I am glad at not having missed any of this masterpiece.
PS, I am only slightly ashamed of having suggested that the movie should have been named "Sexy Time" because of Ken Watanabe. Disrespectful, I know. I'm sorry.