Midnight in Paris in New York
I don’t get out to the cinema quite as much as I might like. But after months of hearing endless praise from everyone lucid enough to express an opinion (informed or otherwise), I finally found time to sneak in and see Midnight in Paris before it was yanked from the few remaining theaters in New York. While I am a die hard Woody Allen fan and will defend even his most hated works as having at least some merit (Celebrity, Hollywood Ending, the one that unfortunately involved Will Farrell), I went in with pretty low expectations. After all, few of his films from the last couple decades have been easily defensible, and fewer still have been remarkable. I knew I couldn’t quite bring myself to hate this movie, but as soon as I saw Owen Wilson’s casual, almost lifeless face on the poster I resolved to give it my best shot.
But my resolve was all for naught, as I was met by a formidable adversary in the form of one of Allen’s finest films in years. I knew nothing of the plot and went in completely blind, which was a refreshing change of pace in this modern world where the latest Hollywood board game adaptation’s trailer is just a few clicks away, even if the actual film is a good year off. (Well, maybe not good, but at least better than the two hours we’ve been waiting for.) While I would recommend to anyone who hasn’t seen the film and is equally oblivious that they stop reading now and let the film wash over them like it did me, here’s the basic gist for anyone who doesn’t doesn’t have time to waste on surprise.
Midnight in Paris revolves around a struggling writer (surprise, surprise) on vacation in Paris (quelle surprise) who is a little neurotic and occasionally twitchy (please don’t surprise me, my nerves can’t take it) and inexplicably time-travels back to the 1920s every night at midnight to cavort with most of the major creative minds of the day (…okay, didn’t see that one coming). In tone, the film is very similar to some of his more whimsical works, like Alice or The Purple Rose of Cairo. It’s a lighthearted affair where emotions rarely run high or low, the nature of magic is never explained (or even really examined), and everyone learns an unsubtle lesson about themselves and their real desires. It’s fun, it’s silly, and it doesn’t make you think particularly hard about your own impending mortality.
I’m not as well-read as I would like to be. A few presumably famous people who I’ve never even heard of pop up now and again. And as for those whose I am at least passingly familiar with, I’m completely ignorant about their personal lives and mannerisms, so I’m not in the best position to judge whether they are accurate portrayals or just rough caricatures extrapolated from their works. That being said, the acting and dialogue were superb, and whether or not Salvador Dali really went about exclaiming “rhinocerouses” in Parisian cafes, I still giggled every time Adrien Brody did so from behind a mustache as surreal as his personality. The image of an inebriated Hemingway seducing a woman by a carousel with pickup lines like “Have you ever shot a charging lion?” will inspire every barroom conversation I’m ever forced into. And my inner film geek was absolutely delighted by little inside jokes like Luis Buñel asking “Yes, but why can’t they leave the room?”
And surprisingly, Owen Wilson was a much bigger asset than I would have expected. For most of the film, his almost complete lack of range gives him both a subtle bemusement that sits well in the atmosphere of fantasy and prevents him from attempting too strenuous a Woody Allen impression. Too many fine actors have grappled with the nervous ticks and stuttering of their muse and lost. But Wilson only occasionally breaks his cool, and those moments are infrequent enough that you don’t too much time wondering who told this California goy that he’s a Jewish New Yorker.
The film muses on the nature of nostalgia, and I don’t think it would be much of a spoiler to say that in the end, Woody comes to the conclusion that life is in the present, and does his darndest to bring us along with him. It is probably equally unsurprising to note that the woman the Allen surrogate ends up with is not his fiancé, but someone with an enchanting accent who has heard of Cole Porter.
But what the film lacks in subtlety or shocking conclusions, it more than makes up for in charm. It may not be his most challenging movie, it may not rank among classics like Manhattan or Annie Hall, but it manages to do what Hollywood is supposed to do: it puts a 90 minute smile on your face and leaves you feeling a little bit better about the world outside the theater. Plus, in keeping with Allen’s best work, there are plenty of attractive ladies to ogle. And even in these troubled times, that still counts for something.
-TC