Midnight in Paris

After forty years in the business, a “Woody Allen film” has been established as a very specific type of movie. One can expect Allen’s trademark prattle, an insecure protagonist, and a variety of beautiful if difficult women. In his latest venture, Midnight in Paris, Allen has cleverly cast Owen Wilson as Gil, his stand-in, and Wilson is perfectly cut out for the role, if you can believe him to be a literary and art snob. Troubled personally as he has been, it’s nice to see Wilson tackling something other than Hall Pass and maybe garnering some self-respect. Rachel McAdams, on the other hand, has come so far from Mean Girls in her career that it’s difficult to buy her as bourgeois fiancée Inez seduced by “pedantic” college professor Paul (Michael Sheen).

By now you may well know that the title of the film refers to the moment where, on a particular street in Paris, two eras overlap and it is possible for one nostalgic writer to share a car with F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, challenge Hemmingway to a fight, and seek advice from Gertrude Stein. These visits to the twenties are crafted with ardor and romance, soft focus and shadows, while the stark present of 2010 Paris is trite, predictable, obvious, and formulaic. Watching Gil, Inez, Paul, and Carol walk the grounds of Versailles, the changing relationships are clear. Remove the dialogue, and follow the action perfectly. How Gil and Inez made it beyond a first date is a mystery, but about par for the Woody Allen course. The less-than-ideal present is definitely evident with the funky casting and forced dialogue. Not surprisingly, the most delightful scenes and performances are in twenties Paris. Kathy Bates is as grounding a force as ever, bringing wisdom to the words of Gertrude Stein. Perhaps the purest, most natural performance comes from Marion Cotillard as Adriana, a beautiful woman from Bordeaux drawn to artist-types (and yes I’m biased) - but it’s also a role we’ve seen from her before. In both Love Me If You Dare and Inception Cotillard also portrays a woman asking the man she loves to choose the path she intends to take. As Adriana she is beautiful and easily the most relateable character whose sensibilities transcend the 1920s. It’s no wonder so many artists adore her, though her reciprocation of Owen Wilson’s affection does lead to one of the more awkward onscreen kisses I’ve seen. Still, Midnight in Paris crams a lot of high-profile impersonations into a few late-night parties, the highlights of which include the Alison Pill’s vibrant Zelda Fitzgerald, Tom Hiddleston as her adoring husband, and Adrien Brody’s bug-eyed Salvador Dalí.

The one thing I haven’t figured out is the extensive opening montage, which spends ages of credit-less shots establishing Paris. Why the segment goes on for so long, I don’t know. I’m the last person to deny the beauty of Paris (dry or in the rain), but I paid $9 for a movie not a motion postcard, even if it is a variation on Xanadu with Olivia Newton-John. Regardless, it’s fun to imagine the twenties as populated by giants of great art and literature as real people living among Parisian wine and parties. Midnight in Paris, like the city itself, is “a movable feast” for English lit majors.