Possible End Times aside, there were some other notable shake-ups this week. Libyan rebels stormed Muammar Qaddafi’s Tripoli compound, forcing media outlets around the world to once again take sides on the spelling of the dictator’s name. Charges against Dominique Strauss-Kahn were suddenly dropped after prosecutors decided that their star witness, Nafissatou Diallo, wasn’t credible. (In fact, the former I.M.F. chief could be flying first-class to Charles de Gaulle as you read this—assuming the tremors didn’t send him running to King Cole Bar.) Eliot Spitzer got hit with a $60 million libel suit. Standard & Poor’s president Deven Sharma stepped down Monday, just weeks after stripping the United States of its AAA credit rating (we give him a C for attendance). A memorial statue of Martin Luther King, oddly reminiscent of Han Solo frozen in carbonite, debuted on the National Mall in D.C. ABC made the stunning announcement that Katie Couric’s fall talk show will be called … Katie. And, of course, Guns n’ Roses bassist Duff McKagan started a wealth management firm. (If that doesn’t restore your faith in finance, nothing will.)

The only place that didn’t seem to see any action was the 2012 presidential race. President Obama is off playing golf on Martha’s Vineyard, and after heavy speculation that he would stuff himself into the clown car that is the G.O.P. candidate pool, Congressman Paul Ryan finally announced that he won’t join the fray, possibly so as not to compete with Rick Perry’s immaculate hair. Of course, there are still some (very slow) dark horses who could make a run for it, like Sarah Palin, Chris Christie and—oh, hey, former governor George Pataki, who’s planning a big speech in Iowa this weekend! Sure, it seems late in the game, but to put it in perspective, the Second Avenue subway line has been pushed back to 2018, so in New York time, Mr. Pataki is doing just fine.

He may not make the earth move, but we’ve had enough excitement for this week anyway.

Gerard Depardieu, in happier times (Getty Images)

Gerard's number one! Gerard's number one!

So believes Richard Stellar, a contributor to The Wrap who, apparently in earnest, believes that French actor Gerard Depardieu's public urination on a plane is a strike for all of our freedoms. "Depardieu's urgent need to relieve himself is metaphoric to the basic rights and privileges that are denied to many of us." (We'd argue that the struggle in Libya is "metaphoric to," or symbolic of, the basic rights and privileges, etc., but do go on!)

"There is no need to serve alcohol on a plane or in an airport. Yet, it is done en masse, and when the results arise from this commerce, they look the other way." While it is said that Mr. Depardieu suffers from a medical condition, arguing that public urination is the "result" of drinking lets off the hook that JetBlue urinator as well. "Drunk people should be able to pee when they want; it's the man's fault" is rather a tangential rallying cry for an advocate for the rights of elder care to make, especially as not everyone has the right to go wherever they please (and what straw-man is really furious at Mr. Depardieu?). Mr. Stellar notes that he once threatened a flight attendant that he planned to urinate if not allowed to get up on the plane. Leave a stall empty at company parties, Sharon Waxman!

ddaddario@observer.com :: @DPD_

THE SCREENPLAY FOR The Duchess of Langeais is based on the Balzac story (and we trust our much more literate colleague, Andrew Sarris, when he says the film abides faithfully by the novella). The movie concentrates on the cat-and-mouse game of seduction between Antoinette (the alluring Jeanne Balibar), the Duchess of Langeais in question—a married but still very flirty fixture at the lavish balls of Paris during the Restoration—and the broody and grizzledly handsome general, Armand de Montriveau, played by Guillaume Depardieu. First, an aside on Mr. Depardieu: We’ve had a soft spot for the son of Gerard since back in the early 90’s, when he starred in Tous le Matin du Monde (and a photo of the actor looking devastatingly French and full of ennui—in a beret—somehow found its way to our bedroom wall). The years, they have changed him, and the once scarily pretty actor has, at age 37, taken on a full load of world-weary charm. (Our nostalgia led us to some research, discovering Mr. Depardieu had his leg amputated in 1995. Ouch!) The movie cuts between the present day (which involves war and cloisters and a nunnery) and five years earlier, when the seemingly-destined-for-unhappiness pair first meet. The movie moves along at a measured, darkly ironic and lusciously costumed pace, the chemistry between the two principles is palpable, and after a long run of films populated by bright shiny young things (Cloverfield, we’re talking to you!), it was a relief to the eyeballs and soul to see two people in a different demographic box of life wrestle with love, intimacy and humiliation. Get to it, tout de suite!

The Duchess of Langeais opens Friday at the IFC Film Center and Lincoln Plaza Theaters.

"I wish I didn't have to go [to the restaurant] tomorrow night, but I have to go," he grumbled to me the day before. But he became animated as the topic turned to his ideas for the new Le Cirque, one that he maintains will be more intimate and manageable, and less histrionic. And to carry out the project, located in the Bloomberg Tower on East 59th Street, he has turned to his longtime architect Adam Tihany, with a tentative opening at mid-year.

Le Cirque 2000 went out with a flourish Friday night, more festively than three other classic Manhattan French restaurants that were embalmed in 2004: Lutèce, La Caravelle and Le Côte Basque (which has been retooled as an upscale brasserie).

Alone for the evening, I had intended to drop into Le Cirque 2000, sip a flute of Champagne and pay my respects, then depart. Within two minutes of arriving, though, I made the acquaintance of three buoyant international businessmen-André Backar, his son, Max, and Gordon R. Larson-who had come to pay homage as well.

Upon disposing of my third Champagne, I accepted their offer to dine in the handsome wood-paneled dining room adjacent to what is now the country's most expensive idle kitchen. There were sure to be a gaggle of celebrities on hand, but I had no idea how close until I slammed my chair into Paula Abdul's upon being seated (she took it good-naturedly). At nearby tables dined comedian Robert Klein, Jill St. John (I think) and Neil Sedaka, whom I did not at first recognize. As a mariachi band worked the room, he hopped up and sang a Mexican love song, in Spanish. I congratulated him for having the courage to perform in what must have been an intimidating setting.

"Are you Spanish?" I asked.

"No," he replied genially. "But I know a few Spanish songs."

The room was so loud at this point that I had to ask him to repeat the answer.

"Really? Well, you're very, very good," I reassured him. "You should sing here more often."

The prix-fixe last supper was exceptional, especially for a hectic New Year's Eve: sliced baked potatoes with smoked salmon and osetra caviar, lobster and vegetable ravioli in fennel sauce, venison noisettes with pumpkin purée, chestnuts and caramelized pears and white truffle sauce. And it would not be Le Cirque without one of its towering Euclidean desserts, in this case a massive chocolate mousse cake impaled with chocolate triangles. At the stroke of midnight, the kitchen crew marched through the dining room banging pots and pans-a surprisingly sanguine troop of cuisiniers, considering they were about to join the unemployment line.

Le Cirque's first (and more sedate) going-out-of-business sale was in 1986, capping a glorious 23-year run. Located in the Mayfair Regent hotel on East 65th Street off Park Avenue, it possessed the glamour and electricity of no other restaurant I'd been to around the world, owing largely to Mr. Maccioni's charisma and his star-packed Rolodex. Le Cirque was the first port of call for scores of stars arriving from Europe, everyone from Gérard Depardieu and Anthony Quinn to the king of Spain.

Like a painting that only you can love because of its emotional attachment, the first incarnation, which was cramped, overlit and adorned with bizarre tropical sconces, kindled the devotion and imagination of its aficionados. And the food was consistently superlative under successive chefs Alain Sailhac, Daniel Boulud and Sottha Khunn. That first curtain closing was attended by, among many others, Mr. Depardieu, Rudolph Giuliani, Ron Perelman, Ed Koch and Ivana Trump, to name a few. I spotted a few misty eyes in that room.

The spring of 1997 saw the debut of Le Cirque 2000, a curious name that suggested a short sprint to obsolescence. Located in the palatial Beaux-Arts Villard Houses (part of the Palace Hotel) and bankrolled by the hotel's owner, the Sultan of Brunei, it could not be more different-some would say bizarre-from East 65th Street: swirling neon tubes, futuristic etched glass, playful undulating banquettes.

Or, as designer Adam Tihany called it in Mr. Maccioni's recently published autobiography, a "Ferrari parked in the middle of the palazzo."

Judging by many of the old regulars I spoke with over the years, they, too, eventually warmed up to it, in no small part due to the stellar cooking of chef Khunn.

There was one thing, however, that I could never understand: the large television suspended overhead behind the bartenders. It seemed to me that installing a television at the romantic Le Cirque was like bringing a video game to the drive-in.

At 11:30 p.m. New Year's Eve, we donned our silly cardboard hats and neon necklaces. The mariachis reappeared, and I turned to toast my new friend Neil, as if to reveal that I was pulling his leg and had known who he was all along. Before leaving, I bumped in to Mr. Tihany and asked him jokingly if the famous neon tubing in the bar would be auctioned off.

"Forget about that," he replied. "Take the flat-screen TV-that's the only thing left with any value."