I saw this three times at the cinema. Three times. And it wasn't enough. It's one of those movies that speaks to you instantly - speaks to so many people - that opening montage of Parisian streets, those wide, far-reaching boulevards that everyone knows, without even a shred of doubt, are in Paris, the lovers kissing on bridges, those blue skies, the way the light falls, golden and honey-hued on everything. I saw it firstly for an amazing PR event put on by Katerina, celebrating a French lingerie brand's launch in Australia, then I saw it with Rachel, a fellow Paris-lover, who was as wide-eyed as me, dreaming of a world with Si Tu Vois Ma Mere as the constant soundtrack. The third time, though, was the best. With my mum - the world's ultimate francophile - the person for whom this kind of film was made. Art and history, Versailles and Giverny, Hemingway and Fitzgerald... Midnight in Paris.
It's funny how Woody Allen movies always seem to present different or even maybe idealised versions of the same self. Men in Woody Allen movies always have a crisp, J-Crew kind of look to them, they're hapless and neurotic and a bit lost, wearing their too-long chinos with thick leather belts and polo shirts tucked in. It's endearing, it's the look of a man dressed by his mother (if the mother ran the country club with a pearl-clad fist). I was watching To Rome With Love the other day, Allen's latest paean to a foreign city, and I was reminded by how much all of his more recent movies look the same. Vicky Christina Barcelona, Midnight in Paris and now this one - they all share that same summer shimmer, that same light, irreverent touch, that same nonchalant, masculine styling. The comparison between Lea Seydoux in this movie - who has a beautiful wardrobe of high-waisted denim and blush coloured shirts, but she's only in 3 scenes so I couldn't really justify doing a whole cinematic style on her, maybe something else though - and Gerta Gerwig in To Rome With Love was so striking. It's as if Diane Keaton walked out of Manhattan and into Incu or Bloodorange and started wearing Acne and K.Jacques. It's startling, and it's kind of a bit telling to look at.
But, back to Owen Wilson. I love the palette of his wardrobe in this movie - the beiges and the greys at first, and then the more daring reds and mint greens and even a bit of a pattern later. I love how relaxed it is; a true writer, solitary and simple. I love how he seems to always be wearing that one pair of chinos and that wide leather belt, and how it's so similar to what Lea Seydoux wears, you're just desperate for them to get together - even over the radiant Marion Cotillard, and the radiantly bitchy Rachel Mcadams (so spoilt for choice). And I love how the simplicity and the preppiness of this wardrobes allows Gill's quirky, slightly neurotic humour and personality to shine through. He was the perfect person for this part, he always seems to have that dazed, wide-eyed look, like he's not quite sure what's going on. It works so well in this scene (and how great is Corey Stoll, hamming it up as the Hemingway with all of the stereotypes and all of those long, grammar-less sentences that we knew existed), and really in the whole film. The slightly too-long pants and the low-slung belts have just the right amount of childishness about them to make all those stunned gazes and those disbelieving stammers work. And it's so relateable, not because we all want to time travel back to the time of hemingway, and not because everyone wishes they had met picasso. It's believable because those stunned gazes and those disbelieving stammers are exactly what we all do when we're in Paris in summer, and everything is just so, so beautiful.
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