We know two things about Napoleon: He was short, and he was angry.

His actual shortness is like Hitler’s micro penis: It may be historically dubious, but it makes for salacious motivational narratives. In truth, the guy was 5-6, though his wars are estimated to have cost the lives of between 3-6 million soldiers.

Too bad little of this is on display in Napoleon, Ridley Scott’s tepid historical biopic that makes Oppenheimer look like Citizen Kane, which it ain’t.

Given the writers’ and actors’ strikes, it feels like the two movies were released back-to-back, though months separated their opening dates. Still, they both represent what classical Hollywood is all about: ginormous props, sweeping scores, casts of hundreds. Comparison is inevitable — and that’s bad news for Scott’s film.

Even with Oppenheimer’s half-billion take at the box office, Christopher Nolan’s magnum opus would have been hard to beat. Stars glommed over each other to snare even a single scene in the A-bomb story. The only A-lister in Napoleon is Joaquin Phoenix.

But the joke, as it turns out, is on audiences expecting anything akin to Phoenix’s Oscar-winning turn as Batman’s favorite nemesis. Where Phoenix was Taxi Driver emotive in Joker, he plays Napoleon like a constipated poker player holding a pair of jacks.

Even Napoleon’s famed military strategizing is glossed in scenes where he off-handedly proposes battle plans that bring victory — but no personification of a man who altered the landscape of Western military power.

Instead, we get what Scott must think defines Napoleon: his ill-fated marriage to Josephine (Vanessa Kirby). The love story continues even after the collapse of their marriage, and provides the movie with its few moments of humor and romance.

But this is strictly Oscar bait, and the big one may have been caught in the summer.

Napoleon the man is fascinating. Napoleon the movie is not.