‘Marriage Story’ is wonderful, but far too long

Lincoln Center’s 57th New York Film Festival centerpiece was divorce story “Marriage Story.” It’s great, wonderful.

Scarlett Johansson — terrific. Adam Driver — terrific. Laura Dern, Alan Alda, Ray Liotta, the kid Azhy Robertson, writer/director Noah Baumbach — terrific.

Also terrific was its length. Scissors would also have been great. It’s yet another scene, argument, go-round. Hey, we get the picture of this whole picture in quick time. But this great, wonderful movie lasted longer than most marriages.

Alda: “I love the film. I myself have no personal experience with this. No friends who’ve been through this. I don’t even know divorce lawyers like this. But I love this film.

“The only thing is there were so many set-ups, and scenes, and takes and different shoots that it seemed to take a lot of time and effort to make.”

Yeah. Like I said.

Lots going on with art & books

Everybody’s busy. Lighting artist Bentley Meeker, who’s shown at the Whitney, exhibiting whateverthehell his light boxes are at his studio in Hudson Yards . . .

Unleashing his infinite potential, Deepak Chopra’s hustling his new book, “Metahuman.” What’s it about? About unleashing your infinite potential.

Small dog, big loss

An obit. Her name? Juicy. Age: 17. Face: Gorgeous. Hair: Thicker than mine. Teeth: Fewer than mine. Weight: Less lunch, 3 ¹/₂ pounds.

An army catered to this Yorkshire terrier, who was smaller than a doily.

Juicy’s doggy hairdresser came over monthly. High-priced vets made house calls. The breeder did home care visits. Ralph Lauren’s store manager booked three fittings for her sweaters. A jeweler beglitzed her collar. She traveled in a classy stroller. Miss Juicy photos made magazines. Gifts, mail, flowers, were sent to her.

Juicy thought she was Cleopatra. Her own bed, own room, own rules. She ignored other dogs, dissed other people, avoided toys, games or exercise.

Also courtesies. Outside, she’d prance around and do nothing. Come inside, she’d pee on my kitchen floor.

My devoted housekeeper, Nazalene — with me 22 years — says graciously: “She was, ‘Feed me, clean me, leave me alone.’ She was you!” Contrary to belief, I, however, did not pee on the kitchen floor.

Juicy Adams left me last week. Not in this life, nor any coming up, could I ever love another creature more.

So, how does New York handle grief?

A friend commiserated four seconds then spent 11 minutes unloading her woes, illnesses and husband’s rattyness. A publicist shared my unhappiness then zoomed into what his clients were doing.

Dec. 8 is my 11th annual New Year’s Blessing of the Animals — free, no reservations, 2 p.m., at Christ Church, 61st and Park. It’s NYPD dogs, rescues, llamas, pigs, farm animals. Last year drew 800 cats, dogs, birds, turtles, fish in a bowl. It’s ministers, rabbis, even His Eminence, our animal-lover Cardinal Dolan , blessed the Catholic dogs. He phoned just now to say his dog, Pickles, was offering a prayer.

A highlight of these past few painful days was the florist’s card inside a glorious bouquet from Stephen Lynch, editor-in-chief of the Godblessus/first with the news/historic New York Post/this town’s greatest read/established by Alexander Hamilton/highest, biggest stack of dailies on any newsstand. The card read: “We are sorry for your lost.”

Only in New York, kids, only in New York.

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