If you had told me that there was a new film directed by Woody Allen, starring Owen Wilson, that was actually really good, I would've said you were crazy. Yet. . . here we are, the roles reversed, with myself as the crier and you, dear reader, as the disbelieving consumer.
It's not a movie for everyone, to be certain - I would hope, at this point, you wouldn't be expecting anthropomorphic robots and explosions from the Woodster - but it's charming, evenly paced, and the kind of straight-forward feel-good movie that leaves me floating.
Owen plays a successful screenwriter who aspires to be a novelist, traveling in Paris with his bride to be (Rachel McAdams), and her disapproving parents. While McAdams and family galumph through the city as the traditional Ugly Americans (led, in part, by McAdam's old friend, and onetime love interest Michael Sheen, in a hilariously douchey role), Wilson finds an intimate connection with all the beauty and history surrounding him. Quite literally, in fact. . . One night, while wandering through the city's street, he ends up at a party hosted by the Lost Generation. Before he even knows what's happening, he's drinking champagne with the Fitzgeralds, being threatened by Hemingway, and having his rough draft reviewed by Gertrude Stein. Caught between two worlds - the modern at daytime, and the roaring twenties at night - he finds inspiration and a renewed sense of purpose.
You're not going to find anything new here - you've seen this type of story before, and you know exactly where it's going. And, to be frank, the "cameos" play out like porn for lit nerds. But the cast is extremely game; the city, and photography, are gorgeous (thanks to master DP Darius Khondji); and there's a sense of romance and joie de vivre seeping out of every frame. Its not a groundbreaking work of life-altering art - but who cares? It's fun, and I love it more every time I think about it.
LOVED
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