Modernity, or post-modernity, or the difference, or whatever that thing we're in now is. Very precisely, very elegantly, theres an evocation of a stylized, graceful past, though the setting is nominally the present. A world of phone booths and opium dens, fedoras, travel agents, zippo lighters, Parisian cafes and London pubs populated by beautiful, sad eyed prostitutes where smoking indoors is always allowed. Cons where people still read mimeographed fanzines. Our world intrudes as a crude, pointless, painful, violent place, above all unbearably stupid. It's terrorism and the war thereon, but it's also seemingly ipods, porn and reality tv. The ambience is pre war, interwar, something, a distilled ambience of a place that still bears some dignity in the western collective imagination of the past, finally explicitely made so much fiction. Noir, detective stories, Casablanca. Fever dreams of trauma. Nice.