Midnight in Paris
The weird part about the advertising for "Midnight in Paris" is that it wasn't at all presented as some kind of time travel fantasy, which meant I left my aviator goggles and opium ampoules at home.
Alert! Woody Allen has found the keys to Michael Jackson's transmogrification machine and can now insert his neurotic spirit into any willing vessel within striking distance. It looks like Owen Wilson picked the wrong weekend to attend one of Allen's father/daughter orgies, because his unlucky body has been forced to bear the bespectacled-one's tedious intonations and pointless musings on the meaning of life through yet another 100 minutes of wasted celluloid called "Midnight in Paris."
Time travel plots should really only involve indestructible cyborgs sent by an unfeeling sentient computer network to change the future for one special lady. Unfortunately, Allen didn't get that particular memo from James Cameron and decided to write a film around the conceit that driving in a really old car through the streets of a foreign capital at speeds well below 88 miles per hour is all it takes to enter the realm of yesteryear.
The weird part about the advertising for "Midnight in Paris" is that it wasn't at all presented as some kind of time travel fantasy, which meant I left my aviator goggles and opium ampoules at home. Theatre popcorn was not nearly enough to insulate me from the funny dress, putrid personal hygiene and failed cameo performances intended to evoke long-dead celebrities writers, painters and sculptors that absolutely no one remembers. It's almost like "Midnight in Paris" was scripted during a drunken turn-of-the-century magnetic poetry slam, which sounds exciting until you realize that at the end, everyone involved dies of tuberculosis.
Alas, I was not lucky enough to myself succumb to the wasting death, and I was forced to sit through Wilson's mumbled dialogue and feigned interest in the film's plot that is almost certain to earn him a nomination for Best Animated Character In A Live Action Film. Rachel McAdams is completely wasted in her role as the shrewish high society wife, and her token presence was clearly meant only to satisfy Allen's bizarre desire to cast at least one tiny blonde actress of questionable emoting ability in each of his productions. I assume that next on the list will be the ghost of Elizabeth Taylor, or perhaps Ryan Reynolds.
There's nothing new to see in "Midnight in Paris," as Woody Allen continues to mark time before he is found dead with his pants missing inside the monkey house at the New York Zoo.
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