Midnight in Paris (2011)

Owen Wilson’s never looked worse and Rachel McAdam’s never acted worse.  The usual Allen affectations abound. I checked, and I haven’t loved a movie of Woody’s since 1989’s Crimes and Misdemeanors; the closest thing to a winner since then has been Don't Drink the Water, but that's a TV movie.

I’m just tired tired tired of the angsty manic chatter that has become his go-to tic for all of his protagonists. It requires more than simple suspension of disbelief. It demands suspension of memory of all of his other films and of a desire for something different. If this were my first Allen film, I might think it worthy of a B or B+, but since I’ve seen so many, it just seems like a pale imitation of The Purple Rose of Cairo mixed with a bit of Bill and Ted’s or Forrest Gump.

C