Midnight in Paris

Working within a light-hearted quaint sharply crystallized kitschy tradition, presenting thoughtful witty self-aware observations concerning creativity, Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris frankly endures its own self-destructive mechanizations as it simultaneously satirizes and elevates various philosophical/sociological/historical/. . . ical points.

Plus it has time travel.

Gil (Owen Wilson) wants to make the transition from writing screen plays to novels while daydreaming about moving to Paris. He trusts no one with his work, however, as he isn't yet prepared to subsume negative criticisms. He encounters a self-assured erudite slightly pompous handsome individual (Michael Sheen as Paul) to whose clarifications his fiancée (Rachel McAdams as Inez) takes a shine. Gil's able to interject the occasional colourful contradiction after travelling back in time to the Paris of the 1920s (which he proceeds to do every evening at midnight) and learning various facts about Hemingway (Corey Stoll), F. Scott Fitzgerald (Tom Hiddleston), Picasso (Marcial Di Fonzo Bo), and . . . first hand, facts which Inez is quick to dismiss because he occupies a less prestigious position.

In the order of things.

Travelling through time raises some interesting points, most of which have likely been mentioned before. Would the novelty of a 21st century kitschy work make it seem literary in the early 20th? Would the novelty of taking a writer and placing him within a 21st century manifestation of the 1920s seem literary from a 21st century filmic perspective? Would the novelty of a literary comedic 21st century filmic perspective seem incisive from an atemporal disengaged discursive non-committal self-reflexive perspective? Would an atemporal disengaged discursive non-committal self-reflexive perspective seem comedic from the point of view of a dedicated modernist cultivating a particular artistic market, working within broad guidelines, an aspect, in reaction to Victorian counterpoints?

Bears.

Hemingway's lines become increasingly trite as Gil's gain critical momentum. As Gil comes closer to situating himself within a burgeoning movement's jouissance, his confidence increases. As his confidence increases within the imaginary, his stability pleasantly deteriorates in the symbolic.

And he succeeds.

Is Gil the greatest kitschy-filmic-literary-atemporal-discursive-disengaged-perpetually-productive sprout ever?

Perhaps, although, with the passing of time, these answers seem harder and harder to ephemerally tether to a shape shifting transformative meteorology, within which moments coyly whisper, "by the light of the sickle moon."

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