At one point, I checked the time code on Netflix and saw that the movie had over forty minutes to go. I visibly winced.
Cannes, France – Scott Fitzgerald, that poetic chronicler of the lives of the rich, the beautiful and the famous, should have had my seat for dinner last night at Le Moulin des Mougins. By the time the sorbet came to clear the palate between the fish course and the entrée, he would already have seen through the glitter into what was no doubt the ennui beneath. The glitter was enough for me.