Oh, Dr. Drew-please help me. I’m a wreck. This is only the first line for my review of
Midnight in Paris, and already I’m feeling defensive. Why is that? When will I be able to sit down and write a critique of a Woody Allen movie without feeling obliged…no, strike that…DUTY-bound to suffix any superlatives with a qualifier like “…in years”. You know-as in, “This is Woody Allen’s best film-in years!” Why can’t I just say something like, “This is a great film”? Is it the vacillating quality of the director’s work over the last two decades? Or is it me? Am I stuck in the past? Have I become one of those sniveling little fan boys that Woody parodied in
Stardust Memories
-you know, wringing my hands over the fact that his recent work is nothing like the “earlier, funny films” he made in the days of my golden youth? I mean, neither Woody nor yours truly are spring chickens any more, if you know what I’m saying. Can’t I be willing to allow an artist’s oeuvre to grow and mature over time as does the artist himself? Wait-what’s that ringing in my ears? I feel a little nauseous. God, I hope it isn’t a brain tumor. Jesus! Uh- Dr. Drew? Dr. Drew?
OK, we seem to have lost our connection. While the studio techs are re-establishing the call, I’ll continue with the thing you came here for-the actual movie review. Woody Allen continues the 6-year (and counting) European travelogue that began in England (
, Cassandra's Dream
), trekked south to Spain (
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
) then after a respite in N.Y.C. (
Whatever Works
) headed back to the U.K. (
You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger
) before settling in the City of Light for this charming romantic fantasy. Allen opens the film
Manhattan
style-with a montage of iconic Paris landmarks (strikingly captured by
The City of Lost Children
DP Darius Khonji and co-cinematographer Johanne Debas). We are quickly introduced to the protagonist/Allen avatar, a financially successful but artistically unfulfilled Hollywood screenwriter named Gil (Owen Wilson).
Gil is engaged to an attractive young woman named Inez (Rachel McAdams). The two of them have “tagged along” with Inez’s parents (Kurt Fuller and Mimi Kennedy) who are in Paris on a business trip. Gil and Inez view Paris from differing perspectives. Inez is excited about the shopping and all of the standard tourist attractions, plus the fact that her bubbly friend Carol (Nina Arianda) is also in town with her boyfriend Paul (Michael Sheen), a pompous art professor who has been invited to speak at the Sorbonne. Gil, on the other hand, is one of those nostalgia junkies who tend to wax melancholic about “being born at the wrong time”. To be sure, part of him does appreciate being alive in the 21st century, where he currently shares a house in Malibu with his lovely fiancée-but if he had his druthers, he would gladly surrender all the Hollywood trappings to make Paris (the perfect environs for him to polish the draft of his first novel) his new home. In fact, if he pushed the fantasy to its limits, Paris in the 1920s would be ideal; a time and place where he might have consorted in quaint Left Bank cafes with the likes of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Eliot and Stein. Meanwhile, Inez and her parents roll their eyes and hope Gil’s romanticized musings about becoming an ex-pat are just a silly phase he’s going through.
Gil, intoxicated by the Parisian vibe, continues to daydream about the Lost Generation as Inez drags him to all the perfunctory tourist stops, accompanied by Carol and Paul. To Gil’s chagrin, Inez appears to be enraptured by Paul’s windy professorial pontifications about the various landmarks that they visit (at one point, he self-importantly “corrects” a French tour guide on some trivia regarding a Rodin sculpture). While Inez admires his “brilliance”, Gil sees Paul for what he really is-an insufferably arrogant pedant (pseudo-intellectuals have been one of Allen’s pet targets over the years; in a later scene where Gil finds himself in a position to render the ever-chattering Paul stymied, I was reminded of that classic “I happen to have Marshall McLuhan right here” moment in
Annie Hall
).
One evening, after the two couples have wined and dined, it’s suggested that they all go out dancing. Gil has done a little more wining than dining, and opts instead to take a head-clearing, late-night stroll back to the hotel, leaving a less-than-pleased Inez on her own to go out partying with Carol and Paul. It’s not long before Gil finds himself lost in the labyrinth of Paris’s narrow backstreets. As he stops to rest and get his bearings, the bells begin to toll midnight. At that moment, a well-preserved vintage Peugeot Landaulet pulls up, seemingly out of nowhere. A lively group of well-oiled young partiers invite him to hop on in and join their revelry. With a “what the hell” shrug, Gil accepts the invitation. Now, so I don’t risk spoiling your fun, I won’t tell you much more about what happens next. I will even suppress the urge to insert a smartass reference to
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang right about now (damn my OCD…I think I just did). Let’s just say that this is to become the first of several “transportive” midnight outings that will change Gil’s life.
Allen re-examines many of his signature themes-particularly regarding the mysteries of attraction and the flightiness of the Muse. He also offers keen insights about those who romanticize the past. Do we really believe in our heart of hearts that everything was better “then”? Isn’t getting lost in nostalgia just another way to shirk responsibility for dealing with the present? At the top of the post, I made a tongue-in-cheek analogy between Allen’s “earlier, funny films” and the “days of my golden youth”. Were Woody’s movies really “funnier” then-or do they function as portals back to a carefree time when I still had my whole life ahead of me? Lest you begin to think that this is one of his more Bergman-esque excursions-let me assure you that it’s not. It’s romantic, intelligent, perceptive, magical, and yes…it’s very funny. There’s a fantastic supporting cast, including Marion Cotillard, Kathy Bates and Adrien Brody. In fact, I will say this without qualification: This is a great film. Never mind, Dr. Drew…I’m cured! Dr. Drew?
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