I hate Woody Allen movies. Really. I’ve hated Woody Allen movies since I saw Bananas. I hate the schlemiel character he created and plays and plays and plays without variation. And don’t even get me started on his “high art fake Ingmar Bergman” phase. Or his older-man-fixated-on-nubile-young-girl scenario. Yuck. Leave it in the therapist office.
Which brings me to Midnight in Paris. I was told (promised) by good friends that there was no schlemiel in this movie. And what exactly is the Owen Wilson character (Gil) except a stand-in for a too-old-to-pull-it-off Allen? Wilson even speaks in the cadence of that irritating schlemiel. And what about those rich-white Americans? Never seen them before, huh? Or the pedantic American so-called scholar? The parents who know the price of everything and the value of nothing? Are all young American women stupid (Inez and Carol)? And all French women smart, attractive and introspective? Yup. I guess so. Please don’t tell me this is satire. It’s trite.
The better parts of the film were the fantasies placed in the Twenties. But there’s that irritating little prick again. All these characters are wonderful, and thank you Kathy Bates for not making a caricature of Gertrude Stein. Thank you Corey Stoll for making one out of Hemingway. And thank you Daniel Lundh (Juan Belmonte) for being the most beautiful thing in the movie. Be still my beating heart.
This weekend I saw three really great film: Cave of Forgotten Dreams, The Makioka Sisters, and Double Hour. I guess 3 out of 4 is a pretty good run. I just keep thinking: what a really good movie this would be if someone else had been in control.
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