Frequently plastered Italian bohemian artist Amadeo Modigliani (an energetic Riccardo Scamarico) deals with art critics, police, antisemites, girlfriends, bomb-makers, irate waiters and fellow wacko artists as he scrambles through the streets of WWI Paris seeking a safe place for his artworks.

Johnny Depp was at one time a top box office draw who committed career suicide with one (or two) too many Disney movies. Now, with this plodding, pretentious mess, he seems to be demonstrating that he’s as bad at directing as he is at divorce.

Maybe he felt some kind of misguided kinship with this tortured, misunderstood artist. Oh, please. It seems Depp never met a film-school cliché he didn’t like. He ignores any insights into the craft, technique and spirituality that make an artist’s creations important, and confuses manic romanticism with simply being an asshole.

There is, however, one scene toward the end that’s so good it simply makes the rest seem more laughably awful. But that’s because it features Al Pacino.

I watched the whole hour-and-three-quarters thing. Seemed three times that long. You’re welcome. (108 min)