‘The Moderns’ (NR)

Call it Rudolphworld. Call it Alan's Place. As created by director Alan Rudolph, it is a place of eccentricity over explanation, weird and wondrous over linear and logical. It can be anywhere -- rainy Seattle ("Trouble in Mind"), tan-scaped L.A. ("Welcome to L.A."), an unnamed spot on earth ("Choose Me") or in the hereafter ("Made in Heaven"). But the cosmic rules always apply.

Now in "The Moderns," Rudolphworld takes over 1920s Paris with its own sensory elegance, pseudo-legend and wry observations on art, fakery, business and plagiarism. And Rudolph gooses the romantic locals -- Gertrude Stein, et. al. -- in the process. So you get Keith Carradine, Rudolph's usual frontman, rubbing elbows with drunken boor "Hemingway"; Wallace Shawn whining around a haughty "Stein"; and cold-blooded businessman John Lone stalking the cafes for hot properties on canvas (his motives not to be confused, of course, with a certain West Coast dream factory with profit in mind).

Carradine is artist Nick Hart, a master forger who hangs out in the Selavy (as in c'est la vie) Cafe, penciling sketches of the artists, whores, pimps and gawkers who stumble through. He's pursuing the voluptuous wife (Linda Florentino) of the nouveau riche Bertram Stone (Lone), while also fulfilling a Ce'zanne forgery job for moth-like Nathalie de Ville (Geraldine Chaplin). Meanwhile his friend, columnist Oiseau (i.e. "bird") is trying to get him to relocate to California.

Rudolph, his coscreenwriter (the late) Jon Bradshaw and the ensemble take so many leaps, there's something here to please everyone. And annoy everyone. Rudolph's pace is only a notch above painting: The film moves slowly, content with character accumulation rather than event propulsion. Some will not go for munchkin beauty Genevieve Bujold as the art dealer who tells Nick Hart (Carradine) in pidgin English: "You vex me." And others have wanted to gun Wally Shawn down since they were stuck with him throughout "My Dinner with Andre'."

But Rudolph's weaknesses pale before the film's overriding textures: Toyomichi Kurita's cinematography exquisitely crosses color with sepia and blacks and whites; you feel as if you're on an impressionist's canvas and -- at other times -- in an antique photo of Paris streetlife. And the music and score form a bevy of delights -- including George Antheil's warm theme from "Sonatina -- Allegro," and CharlElie Couture singing "Dada Je Suis" in a satirical rasp, as in "Da-da-da-Je-suis-da-da-da-da."

To borrow from David Byrne, this ain't no Paris. This is just fooling around. Take Kevin J. O'Connor as the Old Man, working on the perfect description of the Paris zen. "A travelling picnic," he tries. "A portable banquet . . ."

"Work on it," suggests Oiseau.