"YOU'RE not going there? Sure that place closed down years ago," the Dublin taxi driver said with conviction. He was wrong. Nixon and Heat were at the Savoy. Train spotting was at the Screen in D'Olier Street. But topping the bill at a refurbished Ambassador was the Sinn Fein Ardfheis.
The cinema in the Rotunda complex has seen better days. A vaudeville feel. Maroon and cream decor, the paint peeling here and there. The mock gold staircase lit by a dusty chandelier. A worn red carpet, speckled with cigarette butts.
About 600 delegates sat in the stalls. The journalists enjoyed a balcony view. Everybody met in the foyer at the interval. Edna O'Brien floated around in a striking green coat. "She's looking for Gerry, but he's spent all day avoiding her," confided one delegate.
Soup and stew, staples of most Sinn Fein conferences, were missing. Golden buttery popcorn and tubs of ice cream were on the menu at the Ambassador. Journalists wandered around with huge cartons of Coke.
Most republicans opted for tea and sandwiches. The beef ones were 20 pence dearer than the turkey or ham. "I think they're safe enough," ventured Gerry McHugh, Sinn Fein's agriculture spokesman. "It's the British beef you have to worry about. Even the unionists know that."
The stars lining the walls weren't Robert Di Niro, Al Pacino or Mel Gibson. This time, Patrick Pearse, James Connolly, and Thomas Clarke stared serenely down from on high.
But the 1916 Rising was a glamorous affair. The proceedings at the ardfheis lacked passion. Speakers expanded at length on the peace process, international affairs, culture and the economy.
There was no sparkle in the ardchomhairle scripts. The lines were stilted; the clapping dutiful. Then, late in the afternoon, the hall fell silent. He made his way through the crowd, a crisp black suit, an Easter Lily pinned to his lapel. Not a hair was out of place.
He stood solemnly by the Tricolour - ideal for the cameras - while the master of ceremonies introduced him. As Gerry Adams stepped forward, they whooped and applauded.
And then he spoke. He took them on a journey through history. The Ambassador wasn't just any old cinema. The Rotunda had staged many momentous events.
Sinn Fein was founded there in 1905. The venue had hosted meetings of the United Irishmen, the Young Irelanders and the Home Rule League. After the 1916 Rising, Sean MacDiarmada and Tom Clarke spent their first night of captivity there.
Gerry was now in his stride. He touched all the right buttons. There were reverential mentions of Bobby Sands and the hunger strikers; friendly little references not to the IBA but to "the army"; pledges that "the struggle" would go on.
But behind the militant rhetoric lay a moderate message. Sinn Fein would consider participating in Northern Ireland elections and the proposed forum. Mr Adams's feet were firmly on the ground. "We live in the real world," he said.
But for the delegates, the show went on. At the end of the Sinn Fein president's speech, footage of nationalists in various acts of resistance against the State was shown.
Gerry drew a hand across his brow, took a sip of water, and moved across the stage. He shook hands with Pat Doherty, raised a fist in the air with Martin McGuinness, and put his arm around Lucilita Bhreatnach.
He waved to the crowd. They rose to their feet, clapping and cheering. Their matinee idol had come home.