As an NYU student of a certain ilk, I will always have a soft spot for Woody Allen. Even at his worst (see The Curse of the Jade Scorpion, or an even lower point, Scoop), he remains the epitome of the maligned, neurotic liberalism that lures people like me to New York in the first place. We worry ourselves into therapy, beat ourselves up over our inferior looks, and reminisce about the 'good old days' of an era preceding our memory, all before taking a seat at the bar and deconstructing the intellectual inferiority of those around us.
Allen's films are often steeped in this pretentious, yet melancholy nostalgia, and Allen has always seemed to have a particular soft spot for the 1920s, the Lost Generation in particular. Some may remember his 1994 comedy Bullets Over Broadway, which was set in the period and found most of its laughs in the pretension of that eras' theater; others may recall his hilarious essay from Without Feathers, entitled "A Twenties Memory" (if you haven't read the book, or the essay, I highly recommend both).
Midnight in Paris feels like "A Twenties Memory" on celluloid; scene after scene is a revolving door of historical figures brought to life. The film stars Owen Wilson as Gil, the prerequisite Allen-stand-in, a Hollywood screenwriter visiting Paris with his uptight fiancée Inez (Rachel McAdams) and her disapproving parents. Gil is in the midst of writing his first serious novel and dreams of abandoning life in L.A. and staying in Paris; Inez finds this completely unappealing.
After an unpleasant evening with Inez, Gil wanders the streets of Paris alone and drunk, when at the stroke of midnight, he is picked up by an antique Peugeot and deposited at a flapper themed party, complete with a pianist covering Cole Porter's "Let's Do It" and a glamorous couple claiming to be the Fitzgeralds. It isn't long, of course, until Gil realizes that the pianist isn't covering Cole Porter, he is Cole Porter, and his new friends are, in fact, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Gil begins making regular nightly trips into this mysterious world of 1920s Paris, befriending all his idols and falling for the lovely Adriana (Marion Cotillard), who just happens to be having an affair with Pablo Picasso.
The film is Allen at his best: nostalgia and genuine, but satirical, witty, and sophisticated. Gil's idols are obviously Allen's idols, and while Allen's fantasy about traveling back in time and meeting the giants of the Lost Generation could easily get mired down in cliches, he isn't afraid to poke fun at his own heroes. (Corey Stoll's performance as Ernest Hemingway is appropriately curt and butch, and Allen provides him with enough dialogue about The Real and The True that will have the former English majors in the audience doubled over in laughter.)
The casting is, across the board, inspired. (Keep your eyes peeled for Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein, Adrian Brody as Salvador Dalí, and the First Lady of France as a museum tour guide.) Michael Sheen is typically adept as pretentious college professor Paul. And Wilson manages to imbue Gil with the essential Woody Allen-ness required without reducing the role to an impression.
Midnight in Paris is only the latest in a renaissance for Allen, achieved mostly by getting back to basics. The film may draw heavily on Allen's past work, but then again, that's what makes it so great. And all the more appealing to us maligned, neurotic New York Liberals.
