Brain Required

Who would have imagined this was even possible?

On a summer evening in 2011, I went to the movies and actually had to use my brain while watching the film.

Yes, folks, a thought process was required.  Now think about that.

These days, Hollywood gives us one piece of excrement after another.  "The Green Lantern."  "Thor."  "Pirates of the Caribbean - Part 4 or 5 or 12."  All of it designed for idiots.  Indeed, the filmmakers thrive on the fact that their target moviegoer is the dumbest of the dumb.  The twenty-year-old male with the attention span of a gnat and the brain power of a twig.

When a gem like "Midnight in Paris" shows up unexpectedly, folks with ages and IQs of 30 and higher need to flock to it.  To behold.  To enjoy.

And, perish the thought, to think.

This is arguably Woody Allen's best work in years.  Personally, I had almost given up on the Woodman.  Beyond his inability to craft anything remotely interesting in the decade or so, there is, of course, that other purple elephant in the multiplex.  His thirteen-year-old wife and his twelve-year-old kids.  Or something like that.  It's tough to appreciate the films of an almost-eighty-year-old pervert.

But, still, when he somehow manages to connect creatively, there is nothing better than a Woody Allen movie.  "Midnight in Paris" is just that.  If you're expecting one of his laugh riots, forget it.  This is not guffaw-laden.  But, you can expect to snicker.  Repeatedly.

This film is best experienced if you have a masters in literature, but that is not required.  It would help you get all the inside jokes about early 20th century writers---the very ones I tried to ignore in high school English class.  That said, you can still enjoy "Midnight in Paris."

Indeed, the movie is a fantasy with surreal elements akin to Woody's very underrated "Purple Rose of Cairo."  In that little jewel, actors in a 1930s movie broke the fourth wall and regularly conversed with the theater audience.  "Midnight in Paris" goes a bit beyond that.  This is the director's first foray into time travel.

I've never liked Owen Wilson, but he is perfect here as he channels Woody's screen persona from "Manhattan."  A neurotic film writer vacationing in Paris with his annoying fiancee and his even more annoying prospective father and mother-in-law.  Our hero so detests his present day life that he longs for the "old days."

While wandering the streets of Paris as a clock tolls midnight, he is whisked away by a vintage car into a world where he is mingling with Parisian cafe society from the Roaring Twenties.  Hemingway.  F. Scott Fitzgerald and his Zelda.  Casals.  Dali.  Gertrude Stein.  They all traipse through here as if their appearance is as routine as finding Dentyne gum next to the supermarket checkout.

I'm sure there were literary references that I didn't comprehend, but I didn't really care.  Regardless of my unfamiliarity with most of these artists, I still found the story incredibly charming and wise.  And, at the film's conclusion, there was no big battle with some bad ass amidst CGI explosions.  Nope, there was a message that you could apply to your own life.

When was the last time that happened to you at the movies?

Thank you, Woody Allen, for restoring some order to a dismal summer at the multiplex.  Sadly, I am sure that the intelligence will be shortlived.

Dinner last night:  Beef with snow peas at Mandarette Chinese Cafe with Mel Brooks two tables away.