I saw three movies this week, and one of them was Woody Allen’s “Midnight in Paris.” Of the three, it was not the worst. But I couldn’t help thinking 1) that his movies are always about the sorts of things that pass for problems among a certain type of rich, white and privileged New Yorker and 2) how much this movie reminded me of an After-School Special.
Plus, it’s really annoying to watch the much-younger Owen Wilson take on Woody Allen’s old-man mannerisms. Is it inconceivable that an actor simply be allowed to interpret the role instead of replicating Allen’s neurotic gestures and speech patterns? Apparently.
I detest how the people talk in his films, too. They never really communicate with each other, they fucking declaim to some unseen audience as if they’re in a Noel Coward play. (I have to say, though: Corey Stoll practically oozes sex appeal as the young Ernest Hemingway. He and Kathy Bates as Gertrude Stein manage to transcend the material.)
Despite Allen’s annoying directorial tics, the movie wasn’t that bad. Paris looks beautiful, and everything ends as it should. And it was a matinee, so it only cost $5.50. So there you go.