Midnight in Paris

Late yesterday afternoon the suffocating heat broke, the skies blued, and I convinced my husband to join me in seeing Woody Allen's film, "Midnight in Paris," which came highly recommended by Melissa Sarno, whose fine blog, This Too... speaks for itself. 

My friends, Melissa was right.  Allen has done something quite extraordinary here—dared to send Owen Wilson (whose screen presence is, to me, a dear one) through the streets of Paris as a yearner and would-be novelist named Gil.  Gil, is about to marry a woman (Inez, played by Rachel McAdams) who rarely listens to and hardly respects Gil's desire to leave his lucrative Hollywood career for a chance at a different kind of writerly life.  Inez is entitled, egocentric, ungenerous.  Gil dreams.

Gil also begins to walk the streets of Paris at midnight, and that's when things begin to change, when the film moves toward both fantasy and the fantastic.  You won't find spoilers here, but I will tell you this:  One of the most moving aspects of this film, to me, was how freely Allen asserted his vision.  Gil's midnight interludes are not explained away as dreams or science fiction.  They are not narratively challenged.  They are merely presented—given to us in all their sweetness and humor, for our cinematic taking.

I loved this movie for its unabashed goodness and for what it says about the power of place, of cities, to embody not just now but then. I loved it for making me laugh out loud, for releasing me back into the dusky night feeling lighter than I've been.