And the admission that when she first arrived in Paris, "I assumed it's a kind of provincial town, where people don't know how to walk," was laughably inflammatory when you consider that Parisian women pride themselves on their ability to walk kilometres in high heels and restrictive skirt suits.
Then, last week, she seemed to have cemented her fate by suing one of France's most beloved writers, Gregoire Delacourt, for "fraudulent and illicit use of her name, her fame and her image", after Delacourt published a book, The First Thing We Look At, featuring a character who closely resembled the star. This kind of self-indulgent litigiousness will make her about as welcome as a body-parts trader in a country where whining is pummelled out of you well before you're taught how to walk in any kind of footwear.
There is no place in Paris for the kind of enfant-roi tantrums that are encouraged in Hollywood A-listers on the other side of the Atlantic. Impatience is not tolerated (your grand creme will take as long as it takes to make), and nor is picky eating (I'd like to see Johansson try to find almond milk, kale or quinoa in Monoprix). In France, class and understatement are seen as synonymous, and while Johansson is hardly Kim Kardashian, one gets the feeling that she'll resent having to scale back the vulgarity.
New York may, however, have been a little hasty in its casting of this particular Gallic mini-drama. While Portman recently admitted to a lifelong fear of confrontation and a desire "to have everyone like me", Johansson says that since moving to Paris she has "started getting really aggressive with people". Which is a start. But it's only when she learns to hurtle headlong into fellow pedestrians and resolutely refuse to apologise that she'll be welcomed with open arms.