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Some remain irreparably anchored to melancholic happy memories while others, on the contrary, are ready to energetically invest everything in what they still cannot glimpse by straining their eyes but which they claim cannot be too far away. In each of the two situations just described, the present tends to be deemed unsatisfactory. Between unsinkable optimism and chronic pessimism, blinding white contrasted with copious ink, daily life is thus swallowed up. As sad as it may be, many people live through an endless series of Monday mornings.
This is the situation in which the protagonist of Woody Allen's delightful new release finds himself. Owen Wilson plays a writer who prostitutes his own talent for mediocre Hollywood scripts (perhaps a sharp nod to the actor's thus far modest filmography). A good nostalgic, he feels, with that veil of sadness, that he was born a few generations too early for the golden age he's never lived through.
Now on the verge of getting married to a showgirl, not very radical and very chic, he finds himself walking, gripped by doubts, through the illuminated streets of Paris. Step by step, he mentally recalls the city's beauty in the splendor of the 1920s, and at the stroke of midnight, this setting can only magically take shape.
It will be precisely his encounter with the "myths" of the past that will make him come to his senses and restore a correct relationship with the present.
It's a simple concept but overall interesting, and I didn't believe that the bespectacled New York director still had the strength to give birth to such a delightful film since, from the times of "Mighty Aphrodite," I had witnessed a slow decline with sporadic attempts at resurgence alternated with too much craftsmanship.
"Midnight In Paris" is a delightful work from a technical point of view as well. The almost manic editing of the scenes combined with the stunning cinematography are capable of enhancing the Parisian streets and lights: the first 5 minutes in this sense are more explanatory than any description could sketch. This visual enjoyment, which remains unchanged throughout the film, strolls hand in hand with the elegant and dated soundtrack in rhythm with the development of the plot. A romantic comedy, yes, but not only thanks to the surreal twists of the inspired script in which Allen's sharp sarcasm is not lacking, with which he describes the daily life of the stereotyped characters he places under his very cynical spotlight.
At this moment, I have a weakness for two French actresses of undeniable talent and beauty whom I'm sure will make themselves heard in the coming decades: Mélanie Laurent and Marion Cotillard. In the film's good cast (Bates, Brody, and Sheen), in which I even appreciated Carla Bruni's cameo, Cotillard truly stands out, confirming my love for this talented woman with magnetic beauty without silicone and inflatable-boat-like curves.
All that's left is to recommend this holiday work, which I've interpreted as a romantic and elegant invitation to savor what one has. It is indeed inherent in humans to give greater emphasis to unfortunate events and to be more severe in judgments of the present compared to the benevolent blurred contours of the past.
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