Hallo folks! Ester here. You might remember me from such previous forays into Film Experience as my "Reader Spotlight" and my Two Stars, One Slot tribute piece, "Waif vs. Waif: Mia Wasikowska vs. Saoirse Ronan." Today I come to you with a feminist chip on my shoulder and a spark of rage in my eye, and my target is Woody Allen -- specifically his tepid time-travel fantasy, Midnight in Paris.
It's not surprising that Hollywood, the quintessential vehicle of nostalgia, is obsessed with landmarks. Jack Nicholson has only to get up in the morning and put his shoes on the right feet four shooting days out of five to get nominated for an Oscar, because Hollywood is just so gosh darn grateful an old-school movie star like him is still gracing films with his presence. Similarly, Woody Allen has only to make a movie that is not truly godawful terrible to make every film critic in the US sigh happily about how the maestro has done it again.
Even then, by the way, he still makes several insufferable stabs at cinema for every Vicky Cristina Barcelona (or Scoop, which I actually kind of enjoyed).
I understand the impulse to make ourselves hoarse praising the man. After all, we're talking about Woody Allen, auteur extraordinaire, Oscar-winner, redefiner of comedy, granddaddy to a thousand less-talented copy-cat narcissists. He's so prolific he probably doesn't even remember making one of my favorites of his films, the wistful and imaginative Purple Rose of Cairo. (Such small, delightful movies are often called "gems," which confuses me as gems come in all sizes; in fact, a woman I know recently received one that may weigh more than she does. But that's neither here nor there.)
Friends, a mediocrity is a mediocrity, whether it comes from Shakespeare or Dan Brown. Why do we insist on grading Woody Allen on a curve?
Having heard good things about Midnight in Paris, like all cinephiles I trooped dutifully to the multiplex with a friend in tow. I was excited! This seemed more my speed than his other recent efforts, since I love the Roaring 20's and had, at the time, just read two books of Hemingway's. The trailers ended; the chatter died down; the lights dimmed -- and soon enough, so did my mood.
Here's what I liked about the film:
- Rachel McAdams as Inez. Long an MVP of supporting roles in smart comedies like Mean Girls, she deserves to headline a flick alongside Owen Wilson. Though the film doesn't give her much to work with, her charm makes a stereotypically dreadful, shrewish role seem that much more bearable.
- Cinematography. Rarely has even the City of Lights looked this luscious.
- The conceit. Great idea! Magic realism isn't used enough in cinema, and there's so much potential in the idea of a contemporary writer heading back in time to seek advice from the greats.
- The Fitzgeralds & Picasso. Though not given much to do and played for laughs, Alison Pill as Zelda especially feels truly thought-through, full of depth and energy and sadness. Many of the other famous folks are just walking one-liners.
Here's what didn't work for me: [SPOILER ALERT!]
- Everything else. Starting with the main character, played by a sunny, fit Owen Wilson as yet another in a long line of actors who have to portray Woody Allen now that he's aged out of playing himself. Owen Wilson works as the hack screenwriter he's intended to be, but not for a moment did I buy him as a neurotic hypochondriac, let alone a truly talented author.
- And he is supposed to be talented! Why else would Gertrude Stein, Hemingway, and Fitzgerald bother to give him the time of day -- midnight, FYI -- let alone encourage his aspirations?
- The love story. Okay, fine, his fiancee Inez is supposed to be a vacuous Republican who doesn't appreciate the arts. That doesn't give him the right to pursue another woman, even one as lovely as Marion Cotillard. Oops, my anti-cheating slip is showing. I hate movies were one partner feels entitled to cheat on another partner. True love is no excuse for shitty behavior. Just break off your current relationship and THEN go in search of your soulmate! Is it that hard? (I'm looking at you, Serendipity.) This leads me directly to another point:
- The amorality. Not only does Owen Wilson's character feel entitled to cheat on his fiancee -- why? because he's an artist? because he can? -- he also attempts to steal her earrings to give to his would-be mistress. This was the point at which my indignation meter went off the charts. Yes, Woody Allen's movies are often dark; they portray the selfish, seamy, often criminal side of human nature. But Midnight in Paris is not a serious drama like Match Point or Crimes and Misdemeanors. Owen Wilson's perfidy is played for laughs. It's not clear to me that Woody Allen thinks his stand-in is doing anything wrong.
Overall, I just couldn't buy it. Not the time travel fantasy aspect of the film, but virtually everything else, down to the costumes. Rarely do I notice wardrobe in a movie except to admire it; Inez, however, wears a variation on the same outfit in every scene! What is this, "the Simpsons"? Let the woman change her clothes! Most importantly, I didn't buy Owen Wilson as a real person, let alone a real author, and that to me speaks of deep laziness on the part of the script.
Stay turned for a list of the Most and Least Believable Portrayals of Writers in Film! Coming soon.