Stars an over-aged Andy Garcia who starts off well by dancing on a table and making come-ons to Pablo Picasso (who as we know was never called an asshole), but here he doesn't go even for play-act maricones and tries to punch our eponymous hero. Things slide rapidly downhill from there. You'll wish you could paint like our hero when you see what a substitute it is for a good pick-up line. He beds a chick after making puppy dog eyes and doing tricks with a puppy dog - this is so we, the audience, and said chick, know what a sweet, amazing guy he is. But then he gets her knocked her up. Her mean papa preaches and keeps her baby. This takes place on the fakest Parisian set since the heyday of Gene Kelly, and soon one notices this portrait of '20s Paris is a collection of arch Art School Wanker in-jokes like funny little guys in bowler hats stealing beef carcasses, la femmes with safari suits and elephant guns taking pot shots at our hero, and Modi and his lady dancing to Piaf's "La Vie en rose" only about fifteen fucking years before it was recorded. That's where I turned it off, mes ami.