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Writer-director Sofia Coppola, fortune’s child, is blessed and cursed for reasons beyond her control. Is it an advantage or disadvantage to have a supportive, larger-than-life father who is a world-famous filmmaker?

While it’s no stretch to rank Coppola alongside Kathryn Bigelow as the two women with the most longevity on the movie industry’s A-list, it should be noted that on the basis of six features she’s directed since 1999, she’s also the most celebrated American filmmaker under 50. (Paul Thomas Anderson is the only other contender.)

She won an Oscar for writing “Lost in Translation” and a New York Film Critics Circle award for directing it. She received the Gold Lion award at the 2010 Venice Film Festival for “Somewhere” and was named best director at Cannes for her 2017 remake of “The Beguiled,” the dark comedy of manners she fashioned from Don Siegel’s overwrought male gothic.

Coppola is a true auteur — a filmmaker with a distinct worldview and sensibility and a personal set of quasi-autobiographical interests. Where Bigelow works in genres that have up to now been dominated by men, Coppola’s are, to use her own term, “girlie.” Her protagonists are generally strong-willed women, whether as individuals (“Marie Antoinette”) or in groups (“The Virgin Suicides,” “The Bling Ring,” “The Beguiled”) or as part of an older man-younger woman pairing (“Lost in Translation,” “Somewhere”). Drawn to father-daughter situations, she is at work on another — her current project, “On the Rocks,” is about a young mother (Rashida Jones, daughter of Quincy Jones) reconnecting with her playboy father (Bill Murray).

Her characters are typically and blithely privileged, often afflicted with ennui, if not affluenza. Her movies are usually set in protective, even rarefied surroundings: comfortable suburbs in “The Virgin Suicides” and “The Bling Ring,” exclusive hotels in “Lost in Translation” and “Somewhere,” a boarding school for young women in “The Beguiled,” and Versailles in “Marie Antoinette.”

Coppola’s fondness for cosseted milieus is reinforced by a propensity to sanitize the past. “The Beguiled” not only evokes a bubble, it is one — a movie set in Virginia during the Civil War that seems oblivious to the state’s slave-driven economy. Similarly, “Marie Antoinette” shows as little interest in the social forces that ignited the French Revolution as it does in the hygienic practices of the royal court.

Having grown up as Hollywood royalty, Coppola, 47, takes these insular worlds for granted. The prologue to her oeuvre is the script she contributed to a short directed by her father in the 1989 anthology film “New York Stories”; its star, an adorable, doted-upon schoolgirl (Heather McComb), lives with her often-absent parents at the Sherry-Netherland hotel and rewards a homeless man with chocolate kisses. (The prevailing message, Janet Maslin wrote in her New York Times review, is “more or less Marie Antoinette’s.”)

On the other hand, no director has greater access, emotionally or physically, to the rich and famous. It’s hard to say which is more remarkable, Coppola’s ability to do extensive filming at Versailles for “Marie Antoinette” or Paris Hilton’s mad narcissism in letting Coppola use her home as a major location for “The Bling Ring,” a movie about the actual burglarizing of Hilton’s home by a gang of well-off, star-struck teenagers who used online gossip sites to track the whereabouts of celebrities and plot their schemes.

Coppola’s veteran male protagonists, Murray in “Lost in Translation” and Stephen Dorff in “Somewhere,” are sympathetically portrayed celebrities adrift in their own stardom. (Dorff’s character, stricken with toxic superficiality, floats through a nervous breakdown.) But while “Lost in Translation” is Coppola’s sweetest film and “Somewhere” the saddest, her strongest movies are those whose characters have stardom imposed upon them or set out to steal it: “Marie Antoinette,” a costume movie whose worked-out choreography is the equivalent of an action extravaganza, and “The Bling Ring,” a deadpan satire.

Scrumptious colors, magnificent sets and upbeat modern music aside, what’s impressive about “Marie Antoinette” is Coppola’s attitude — a bold refusal to Frenchify or even periodize her knockout cast, which stars Kirsten Dunst in the title role and Jason Schwartzman as her husband, the future Louis XVI. As a parody of monarchist protocol, “Marie Antoinette” anticipates “The Favourite” but loses its edge once Marie and Louis become adults. (The falloff is as drastic as the last 45 minutes of dad’s “Apocalypse Now” — another attempt to make history.)

By contrast, “The Bling Ring,” a deceptively blasé, both-sides-now view of celebrity, never breaks character. More of an exposé than a narrative, Coppola’s account of the so-called Hollywood Hills Burglars is based on a true story (or rather its account in Vanity Fair). With everything refracted through the news media, “The Bling Ring” is both a critique and celebration. Strutting five abreast down Rodeo Drive, as though posing for an album cover, the members of the ring imagine themselves as stars in their own movie (too bad for them that a surveillance camera provided their on-screen debuts). “We don’t know how (or if) they think, and we don’t know quite what to think of them,” A.O. Scott wrote in his Times review.

The two standout performances — Leslie Mann’s new-age airhead and, cast against type, Emma Watson as her bratty, stubbornly self-justifying daughter — are gutsy portrayals of appalling characters one loves to hate (or simply hates). But any moral satisfaction derived when the kids are busted is transitory. On screen and off, most of the real-life kids were rewarded with friend requests and fan pages, as well as with Coppola’s phlegmatic glamorizing film.

Had Andy Warhol lived to see “Marie Antoinette” or “The Bling Ring,” he might have considered Coppola his favorite Hollywood director. (The significance paid to footwear in both films could not have failed to impress an artist who was, in his commercial phase, the acknowledged master of drawing shoes.) Coppola’s blankly comic dialogue — cascades of “Omigod!” punctuated by cries of “That’s so ill!” — are juxtaposed with pop images worthy of painters Ed Ruscha or David Hockney.

“The Bling Ring” is uncompromising in its portrayal of banality and shallowness. In a certain sense there hasn’t been anything quite like it since Warhol filmed Edie Sedgwick in “Poor Little Rich Girl.”

This article originally appeared in The New York Times.