Midnight in Paris

Trusted Readers,

A bit of forewarning. This post is going to get a bit introspective. I'm treating you to a two-fer. The first part of the post will concern the above mentioned Woody Allen film, "Midnight in Paris," then there will be a clever segue of my choosing quickly followed by a bit of a stream of conscience expose that hopefully will speak, musically, poetically, literally, to you, Trusted Reader.

"Midnight in Paris" is my favourite (notice the British spelling) film of probably the past five years. It then can be assumed that it is probably my favourite (again, notice the British spelling) film of the summer. But of course, you, reader, know better than to assume. However, rest assured. "Midnight in Paris" is my favourite (notice the British spelling) film of this summer. The film stars Owen Wilson as Woody Allen and Rachel McAdams as Diane Keaton and is set in, of all places, Paris.

The plot revolves around Gil (Wilson) a successful American writer trying to find inspiration for his next novel. He believes Paris is the place to find such inspiration and decides to vacation there with his fiance, Inez (McAdams). Now, Gil is a bit of a romantic. He believes that the best period of Paris' history was back in the 1920s when the Paris Circle, a group of mostly American expatriates along with the occasional Picasso and Bunuel, was at its peak under the guidance of Gertrude Stein. No one that Gil knows agrees with him. But, as fortune would have it, Gil is walking back to his hotel one night, a bit drunk, and, lo and behold, a taxi out of the 1920s filled with loud flappers and a man by the name of Scott Fitzgerald picks Gil up. Ta da. He's been magically transported back to the '20s. Gil meets all sorts of celebrities of yore including, but not limited to, Ernest Hemingway, Josephine Baker, and Cole Porter to name a few. Then, come morning, he's back in the present day. He tells his fiance and her parents, who are in Paris for business, but no one believes him. He is still convinced and retraces his steps the next night to find he falls back into the '20s again. This time, he has a rough draft of his current novel which he gives to Gertrude Stein to critique. The novel is about nostalgia and an antique shop. She critiques and he listens. The primary device that moves the plot is Gil meeting one of Picasso's many lovers and his falling for her. However, she believes the turn of the century is the best time for Paris. This longing for the "golden age" which is found to be present in all times of history, including during one's presumed "golden age," causes Gil to realize nostalgia just ain't what it used to be.

The subject was an interesting one for Allen to write about considering he has seen so much and lived so long. This is definitely an I-wish-I-was-younger-but-I'm-not-so-I-may-as-well-enjoy-being-old films that all distinguished filmmakers create when they realize they are old. But I loved the film, in my ripe age of nineteen years, nonetheless. Though I am young, the idea of nostalgia and what Allen realized is rather apt to me.

This summer has been interesting to say the least. It has, if nothing, been nostalgic. Having just been graduated from high school, I am in a limbo of sorts. Currently, I stand on the border between, as I feel, my childhood and adulthood with high school symbolizing childhood and college, adulthood. It's a rather strange place to be. I have classified everyone I know into three categories: those who (mistakenly) are excited to be seniors in high school because they haven't yet had to suffer through second semester, those who have already been through their first semester of college and tell me, "You have no idea how much fun it's all going to be" (they're right, I have no idea because I have no perspective), and all the poor suckers who, like me, are waiting to go to college. So, not knowing what to look forward to, I look back. I've spent the summer looking back at being young and I suppose innocent. I've especially looked back at my high school years. The swim team that I loved for the people but hated for the swimming. The classes that I dreaded and the teachers with whom I hope to keep correspondence long after my days in those halls. The best friends with whom I've spent weekend after, sometimes, uneventful weekend messing around playing Call of Duty (2 usually because my best friend is a sadist who knows he's stupid good at that version but everyone else hates). The girlfriends. Need I say more?

As I look back, I know I'm going to miss all of it. All of my fondest memories happened in my last nineteen years and quite a few of them during my last four alone. I will never be able to say, "I'm in high school" again. I, and I really am going to miss this, am never going to get to act in a play for my high school again. Those were some of my best times. There's nothing quite like sitting through dress rehearsals, patiently, in full costume taking all sorts of critiques from my director when all I really want to do is talk to the girl with the over-sized lollipop and just be able to smile for no reason and laugh a lot. But all of that is over for me. I'm now going to a different world. An unfamiliar place.

However true this might appear to be, I have not yet mentioned the one trump card which changes everything: the St. Louis factor. For those who did not grow up in St. Louis, this will be lost on you. St. Louis is a big city that also happens to be a very small town. Everyone knows everyone, and those that grew up here went to school with everyone. Now most of us are going off to college (the rest are still in high school), some in distant places others in not so distant lands (like me going to school in St. Louis), but we still end up knowing everyone. Why is this? I believe St. Louis is a siren, and she tempts all of us back. And, as well tied to the mast as we may be, we come back. We go off into the world and find ourselves, then we come back. But this is the hopeful part. The beautiful part. We grow up together, we go off alone and come back (sometimes with a wife and kids, sometimes looking for a wife and kids), then we grow old together. And there's where nostalgia ain't what it used to be. The future in St. Louis is inextricably tied to the past. (It's often joked that one can't swing a dead cat in St. Louis without hitting someone they know. But that's the fun. It seems almost poetic to go through life from literally birth to more or less death with the same circle of friends, family, current lovers, former lovers, and future lovers going in and out of our lives. All players taking different parts at different times. It makes the whole experience more meaningful I believe.)

Allen shows that the past is gone and we must look forward to the future, whatever it may hold. For me, my past and my future will, very possibly, be linked. It's as though the first and third acts of the "Play of my Life" will have the same setting. What sits in between, and what will be most enlightening, is the second act which I'm about to begin.

"Midnight in Paris" is a film you, reader, should see. Or perhaps you've already seen it. Either way it is both beautiful and thought-provoking. On top of the film being superb, I couldn't have asked to see it with better company.

I hope you've read this whole damn post,

D