A movie, not a book, but a movie loaded with writers and artists that is a treat, a parfait of delightful decadence. To start, the movie is shot off-color and looks like yellowing color prints that befit the theme of romanticizing a by-gone literary era. Owen Wilson is perfect as the muddled “Woody Allen” character, a writer whose creative world is haunted by the vision of Paris 1920s as a golden era. Can you re-recreate the past? Gil, the writer, wants to give it a try. And so the movie gives fun, terrific scenes of Parisian parties with the Fitzgeralds etc.: Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein speaks lovely French, the actor channeling Hemingway is gorgeous, Adrian Brody as Salvador Dali is a hoot, Toulouse Latrec looks terrified, Picasso gets dumped by his girl firend who ultimately finds the 1890s as the golden era of Paris. Carla Bruni, now the First Lady of France, plays a museum guide and seems to enjoy the role very much. For readers whose literary tastes were formulated in the mid-twentieth century, this movie feels like going home again.