'Midnight in Paris' review by Captain Raptor
Midnight in Paris is about one man's appreciation for the past, which ties in nicely with my current theme of not reviewing new films. It's certainly an interesting concept for a film - a struggling writer on holiday finds himself whisked away to 1920's Paris and meets various historical figures, like a time-travelling Forrest Gump - and it comes with a great deal of talent working on it, most notably the renowned writer/director Woody Allen and the Oscar-winning actress Marion Cotillard. On a separate note, it also stars Owen Wilson. I'll state from the start that a lot of my problems with this film probably stem from the fact that I am totally unfamiliar with the majority of the culture and famous figures that make up the crux of the film. I've never read Hemingway or spent much time looking at Picasso, so you could say that this was a poor choice of film for me, but we'll dive right in.
The crucial error that this comedy makes is that it doesn't seem to attempt to be funny. It isn't unfunny in the same way as something like Year One, where gags are thrown at you constantly to no effect, there's just very little here that could actually be considered an attempt at humour. I guess it's trying to seem as sophisticated and dry as its subject matter, but surprisingly a lack of jokes leads to a poor comedy. The opening sequence is the worst of all. For the first two or three minutes of the film we are treated to what is essentially a slideshow of the Parisian streets - no dialogue, no movement, not even any credits to look at. I understand that Woody Allen made this film because of his personal love of Parisian culture, but to an outsider the film's constant enamoured gushing at French architecture and the reiteration of history feels like a particularly uninteresting museum lecture. Aside from the obsession with its subject matter, the film is also poorly written, or at least relatively poorly for a man of Allen's stature. Owen Wilson's character has to resort to speaking his thoughts out loud when he's alone to communicate his reactions and emotions on various occasions, which is jarring and unnatural. Of course, this may be compensation for the fact that Owen Wilson has the same ability to emote as flaccid watercress.
The film's cast is impressive and expansive, as one should expect from a Woody Allen film. The quality of the parts they were given is however incredibly variable. There are terrible roles (Martin Sheen playing one of the most irritating characters to ever grace the silver screen. The character is intentionally aggrivating but that doesn't make him any more pleasant to watch), needless roles (Why bother casting Kathy Bates if you're not going to give her a chance to act?), and the occasional great role (Adrian Brody's spot-on and amusing portrayal of Salvador Dali - the only figure in the film that I actually know much about - is my highlight of the film). Aside from Dali, the film's other saving grace comes in the form of the Fitzgeralds: Tom Hiddlestone's unstoppable natural charisma shining through as the infamous author and Scott Pilgrim's Alison Pill as his audacious wife. Again, they have no particular comic material to work with, but their sheer magnetism as performers elevates them above the rest of the cast, forced to try and wring out some comedy from a lifeless script. The film's sense of whimsy and the stylish 20's visuals are certainly enough to make the film watchable, but rarely does it actually qualify as entertaining. The film's best scene by far and away is the only scene in which Brody's magnificent Dali appears; Owen Wilson describes his absurd situation of being lost in another time period to a group of surrealists in a café, who thing he's being interpretational and proceed to plan works of art based on his supposed metaphor. It allows Wilson to showcase that exasperated look of confusion that is his one emotion, gives Adrien Brody the chance to be completely ridiculous as Dali ("I see... a rhinoceros" is a line so well-delivered you'll forget it isn't actually funny) and it's one of the few times the film tries to actually have any fun with its subject matter, as opposed to basking in its glory.
Like history, the film repeats itself. You slide comfortably into the pattern of 'Owen Wilson is in the modern world and hates it, Owen Wilson is in the 1920's and loves it' like an aggressively dull version of Groundhog Day. Overall, this is definitely a film for the specialists - if you're an expert on the culture of the 1920's you'll have a ball, and some of the most loyal Woody Allen fans may be able to trick themselves into thinking they're enjoying the experience, but for everybody else, I'd recommend you avoid this like the plague. Because if this film isn't terrible, the only alternative option is that I'm too much of a philistine to appreciate it, and we all know that's impossible.
The crucial error that this comedy makes is that it doesn't seem to attempt to be funny. It isn't unfunny in the same way as something like Year One, where gags are thrown at you constantly to no effect, there's just very little here that could actually be considered an attempt at humour. I guess it's trying to seem as sophisticated and dry as its subject matter, but surprisingly a lack of jokes leads to a poor comedy. The opening sequence is the worst of all. For the first two or three minutes of the film we are treated to what is essentially a slideshow of the Parisian streets - no dialogue, no movement, not even any credits to look at. I understand that Woody Allen made this film because of his personal love of Parisian culture, but to an outsider the film's constant enamoured gushing at French architecture and the reiteration of history feels like a particularly uninteresting museum lecture. Aside from the obsession with its subject matter, the film is also poorly written, or at least relatively poorly for a man of Allen's stature. Owen Wilson's character has to resort to speaking his thoughts out loud when he's alone to communicate his reactions and emotions on various occasions, which is jarring and unnatural. Of course, this may be compensation for the fact that Owen Wilson has the same ability to emote as flaccid watercress.
The film's cast is impressive and expansive, as one should expect from a Woody Allen film. The quality of the parts they were given is however incredibly variable. There are terrible roles (Martin Sheen playing one of the most irritating characters to ever grace the silver screen. The character is intentionally aggrivating but that doesn't make him any more pleasant to watch), needless roles (Why bother casting Kathy Bates if you're not going to give her a chance to act?), and the occasional great role (Adrian Brody's spot-on and amusing portrayal of Salvador Dali - the only figure in the film that I actually know much about - is my highlight of the film). Aside from Dali, the film's other saving grace comes in the form of the Fitzgeralds: Tom Hiddlestone's unstoppable natural charisma shining through as the infamous author and Scott Pilgrim's Alison Pill as his audacious wife. Again, they have no particular comic material to work with, but their sheer magnetism as performers elevates them above the rest of the cast, forced to try and wring out some comedy from a lifeless script. The film's sense of whimsy and the stylish 20's visuals are certainly enough to make the film watchable, but rarely does it actually qualify as entertaining. The film's best scene by far and away is the only scene in which Brody's magnificent Dali appears; Owen Wilson describes his absurd situation of being lost in another time period to a group of surrealists in a café, who thing he's being interpretational and proceed to plan works of art based on his supposed metaphor. It allows Wilson to showcase that exasperated look of confusion that is his one emotion, gives Adrien Brody the chance to be completely ridiculous as Dali ("I see... a rhinoceros" is a line so well-delivered you'll forget it isn't actually funny) and it's one of the few times the film tries to actually have any fun with its subject matter, as opposed to basking in its glory.
Like history, the film repeats itself. You slide comfortably into the pattern of 'Owen Wilson is in the modern world and hates it, Owen Wilson is in the 1920's and loves it' like an aggressively dull version of Groundhog Day. Overall, this is definitely a film for the specialists - if you're an expert on the culture of the 1920's you'll have a ball, and some of the most loyal Woody Allen fans may be able to trick themselves into thinking they're enjoying the experience, but for everybody else, I'd recommend you avoid this like the plague. Because if this film isn't terrible, the only alternative option is that I'm too much of a philistine to appreciate it, and we all know that's impossible.
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