Woody Allen Bombs Again!

Midnight in Paris (2011)

Directed and Written by Woody Allen

Mediapro Productions, PG-13, 100 mins.

(Zero--the pits!)

An old probability theorem holds that if you had an infinite number of monkeys banging away at an infinite number of typewriters, they’d eventually compile the complete works of William Shakespeare. I don’t know about that, but I suspect it would only take two or three to come up with more realistic dialogue than Woody Allen produces. I only made it through 45 minutes of his latest tortuous turkey before walking out. I’ve only myself to blame. I swore off of Allen years ago after a string of films that made me consider doctor-assisted suicide. But several people assured me that Midnight in Paris was different--”Paris is gorgeous, “I was told,” and “this one is actually enjoyable.” Right on part one, but pull the lever for the trap door in the floor on the second.

Yes, Paris is lovely to look at. If the opening montage feels familiar, it should; it’s the opening sequence of Manhattan set in full-color Paris minus the voice-over, and with Gershwin replaced with jazz. I guess it’s not plagiarism if you copy off your own paper, but you’ll also find Allen riffing off past works such as Zelig and The Purple Rose of Cairo. Michael Sheen playing Paul, a know-it-all professor, will also seem familiar. That’s because he’s channeling roles Tony Roberts played in Allen movies in the 1970s and 80s. It’s clear that Allen hasn’t had an original thought in years. It’s equally clear he hasn’t hobnobbed with any real people in decades. Honestly, dolphins communicate better with humans than Allen does.

The set-up? Another fabulously wealthy jet setter couple, Gil Pender (Owen Wilson) and his fiancé, Inez (Rachel McAdams), is in Paris where, for some strange reason, her folks have joined them to help plan a wedding that will take place in Hollywood. Huh? Wait, it gets worse. Gil is a wealthy screenwriter--Stop Woody, you’re killing me!--who wants to be a novelist. He’s in love with Paris and obsessed with the culture that developed there in the 1920s. He’d like to move to Paris, but his bubblehead fiancée finds Paris a bore. Paris a bore? Like anyone would believe that! There’s absolutely no spark between Gil and Inez. Fine; the plot demands that we find them incompatible before they tie the knot, but we are left wondering how they were ever compatible. The script is bad, but neither Wilson nor McAdams help it with their shallow performances. As has become his norm, Wilson expresses his full range of emotions--both of them--the gee-whiz astonished look, and the disaffected couldn’t-care-less pout. McAdams doesn’t have much to do, and she responds by living down to the role. She’s eye candy and nothing else.

Here’s the film’s big idea. Gil wanders Paris streets at night and when the clock strikes midnight, a fancy antique car appears, a voice commands him to jump in, and he’s with Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald in--you guessed it--Paris in the 1920s. In his various trips back in time he meets Picasso, Henri Matisse, Salvador Dali, t.s. elliot, Edgar Degas, Josephine Baker, and Ernest Hemingway, among others. Movie magic? Not really; it plays like one of the cheesier episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation when the scriptwriters couldn’t come up with intergalactic ideas so they shipped the crew off to the holodeck and let them interact with historical figures. All of this so Gil can get feedback on his novel from Gertrude Stein. Good lord! It’s all just an excuse for actors such as Kathy Bates (Stein), Adrien Brody (Dali), Marion Cotillard and others to walk onto the set, chew up a bit of scenery, and say they’ve been in a Woody Allen movie. One performance demands note, that of Corey Stoll as Hemingway. He’s memorable, but only for being more wooden than the Home Depot lumberyard.

It baffles me how Woody Allen continues to be seen as an intellectual just because he quotes dead ones. Midnight in Paris is unimaginative filmmaking wrapped around turgid dialogue and recycled ideas. Maybe there were some better moments toward the end; like I said, I was outta there after 45 minutes. I’m officially taking the pledge--no more #@!*%$% Woody Allen films. My advice: If you want to see nice shots of Paris go to Google images, send your favorite images to your desk top, and create a slide show. Then go round up some monkeys and see if one of them can write a script.