The nominations for the 84th annual Academy Awards were announced today, and while Hugo stole the show quicker than a thief on roller blades, we’d like to pause for a second and chitchat about one film that is ever-deserving of the Academy’s admiration: Midnight in Paris.
You may remember, the Woody Allen film was on retainer last year at West Village’s Magnolia Theater for months on end. Like ramen noodles to a college student, it was a film buff’s staple.
Once, upon gushing my love of said film to a friend, she friend remarked, “I hated that movie. It was too cerebral.” If that’s how she felt about it, it’s probably best she hated it. This film is for a cultured palate, one the craves the refined tastes of Gertrude Stein, Cole Porter and Salvador Dali (and therefore requires prior knowledge of the aforementioned culture-shapers), not those who believe a solid screenplay consists of the lead actor/actress searching for love only to realize it has been right in front of them the entire time. Because that’s never been done before.
Upon reviewing the film, Roger Ebert said:
This is Woody Allen‘s 41st film. He writes his films himself, and directs them with wit and grace. I consider him a treasure of the cinema. Some people take him for granted, although “Midnight in Paris” reportedly charmed even the jaded veterans of the Cannes press screenings. There is nothing to dislike about it. Either you connect with it or not. I’m wearying of movies that are for “everybody” — which means, nobody in particular. “Midnight in Paris” is for me, in particular, and that’s just fine with moi.
Nominated for four Academy Awards including Best Picture, Art Direction, Directing, and Writing (Original Screenplay), Mr. Allen’s film deserves every inch of these four poetic nominations.