Review: Midnight in Paris (2011)

I have seen enough Woody Allen films to expect the plain black opening titles, the alphabetical list of actors, and the delectable eye-candy that he provides any time he chooses to present the setting as though it is a principle character. He often translates the personality and character of his chosen city to complement the plot and theme of the film, and never has he approached a city with more heart and whimsy than Paris. Midnight in Paris stars Owen Wilson, and not only is it Allen’s love affair with the city of light, but one in which Wilson’s character falls for its charm through present, past, and future. The movie is a wonderful affirmation of the power of art and life itself, while it still retains the absurd delight and humor of Allen’s previous films, it breaks free of the repetitive chains that can often weigh down his prior work.

Like many of Allen’s protagonists, Wilson’s Gil is a dreamer with talent and is on the verge of a significant life event. He is in love with Paris but reluctant to solidify this discovery with his fiancée; he wants to stretch his wings as a writer but it’s clear that the environment in which he is working is stiflingly judgmental. After a drunken stroll, he finds himself being picked up by a set of strangely dressed partygoers and suddenly starts to notice all-too-familiar people and places that are strangely reminiscent of 1920’s Paris. Then he’s thrust in front of Earnest Hemingway and a slew of American expats and we realize together that he really is in 1920’s Paris. Wilson must have been hand-picked for the expertise he brings to the art of the incredulous expression, because he has somehow surpassed the simple neuroticism of the typical Allen protagonist and brought in new depths of both frenzied glee and endearing astonishment (see above image).

Allen’s command of the script in regards to Wilson’s character arc is elegant: Gil is thrown into what he believes to be the best time in history to be alive and is given every reason to stay and pursue the fantasy before him. In the meanwhile, he learns about his own writing and meets the most amazing set of ensemble characters Allen has ever assembled in one film. From the zany Fitzgeralds to T.S. Eliot, Allen has loaded the film with many a historical easter egg, but they aren’t without purpose, imparting life lessons to both Gil and the audience. Corey Stoll positively reigns as the king of the secondary cast, bringing a gravitas to Hemingway somewhere between hilarity and sincerity of which I could have never dreamed. Kathy Bates’ Gertrude Stein is deceptively motherly, fiercely intelligent, and never over the top; she also has one of the best lines of the film, declaring that “The artist’s job is not to succumb to despair, but to find an antidote to the emptiness of existence.” But it is through falling for Marion Cotillard’s character that Gil is able to process the choices (both fantastic and real) that will define him and his future.

This could be my favorite film of Allen’s so far. While his Purple Rose of Cairo (1985) has long been my favorite, the resolution to Gil’s endeavors was not only the most logical based on the construction of his character, but also one of the most satisfying of any of his films. As he walks away from the camera and into the rain during the parting shot, you can be certain that he is leaving with hope in his heart, and that is as much as anyone can ask for, no matter the era.