Lessons learned from Midnight in Paris

By Rushida RAFEEK

"When writing a novel, a writer should create living people; people not characters. A character is a caricature" wrote Ernest Hemingway once, which of course is a fitting quote of soul towards Woody Allen's collection of cast, each profoundly authentic in his latest movie- peeling back layer by layer of Paris in the roaring 20s. To have each character enact through the veneer that splashes real identities is a deep breath to hold so with hope. Allen's perception of "a movable feast" at midnight is pinched with a lush of figment and fantasy which we thought only fairytale Cinderella would have easily accomplished.

Hemingway

Thus Midnight in Paris has given a way to nourish ones present day with a timeless taste; a time when Paris became the meat of many literary and artistic magnates oeuvre. Here, very devotionally, the past is to be mined whenever they need to be. To some, it would simply be a pilgrimage endeared even better- an innocuous love affair hearkened back, though they were once at the forepart of the times.

Absorbing its ultra motive to fetch the forgotten which throve upon nostalgia, Midnight in Paris with its cautious step threads its arm through a bit of Purple Rose of Cairo which is an impelling charm a feature. Paris sees its own beautiful face of the 20's embodied in the movie. One can gradually find an instant sentiment to walk the streets of cobblestone preached by moonlight as a realm of brocantes and petite bars bathes the corner with a lick of Jazz in its efficacy.

And then from somewhere soft steps of flappers exalt Coco Chanel- brewing merry induced conversation, amongst a converge of Hemingway, Cole Porter, Picasso or Salvador Dali sipping whisky at the La Closerie des Lilas's window that rains.

It chants this poetically rather tenderly clashing with the blasé edges of reality in the ruination of a twenty first century fiancée.

At every stroke of midnight no matter how improbable, there is a wistful rumour winkling out that Paris in the 20s has returned. Owen Wilson in this case Gil is enraptured by the transportation to Paris in its Golden Age- a distant age to which he has ever longed for. A vintage car with a group of strangers sauced pulls to a halt adding Gil as its passenger. No sooner, he meets Ernest Hemingway (who tucks a little writing advice), Josephine Baker, T.S Elliot, Djuna Barnes, Zelda with Scott Fitzgerald and is further taken to mingle in the companionship of Gertrude Stein, Adriana (Picasso's mistress) and Picasso which creates a spellbinding conviction to swell with aplomb under a rich vein of magic entangled in a dream of one man's coping to quell the urges for the Golden Age.

This, in fact is a graceful melody shielded not by disappointment but a joie de vivre which is essential wherever delicate Paris is considered. In times where when one finds it difficult to cope with the present day's motifs that are insipid, a scenario vividly familiar takes the stage within possibility. Why yes, it included all who Gil as an infant writer himself cherished with grave compassion.

Zelda and Scott Fitzger ald

After a pregnant pause, one would also expect now and then to hop to a time where influences meet their idols creating a sense of enlightenment littered in the movie. Midnight in Paris lives a short but crisp understanding the dawning beauty of the 'Lost Generation'- a theory often experimental; the eventuality in its craft, its surrealism creates a sense of place almost truly.

It is indeed a feast for the hearts of those who froth on the same shoreline- to regale in a room of indulgence percolating fantastic coterie who've embraced Paris as a second home; exchanging ideas cognate to cultural aesthetic. We witness Paris lift the veil for liberation. It has breathed art, fashion, literature and music like a fresh point in the compass. Paris, the lady with many a womb. It is the best of times. It is the worst of times. It was a garden wilting fast and has run away, never to return. Still, after all no matter how modern, it is resurrected reconfiguring their echoes leaving a detail for memory, carrying the weight of heritage which will remain like in the books written as well as in those paintings flawlessly watercoloured. The voice in the movie echoes of societies they have known faraway from what I know now.

For that reason, for a life moving from the 'extinct', possibilities from retrieving something close to it palming your search is love found at last. Even after disappearing into thin air, as we know it, you study its face, its touch ingrained with all its writers, poets, musicians and artistes strengthening to what will be known as...well...more like Hemingway's Paris- a city taken over by him and the rest like him. What one finds is that the city delights in making it follow the magnate somewhat like a shadow throughout his/her work. One marvels at the ability expressed in plenitude while others strive to articulate is nonetheless a hard work's triumph. Midnight in Paris celebrates that, proudly.

Engrossed, it wasn't until much later perhaps there came something pulpous over the syrup. Its tone gentle and confessional- serving expertly when Owen Wilson softened the mythical in the movie by some sensitivity that drew me in. Gil phrased: "I always say I was born too late" when I finally agreed relenting. All the more I hope I'm not the first to make this point seem a pummel to the present time. More than a pinch, may it only be an echo of clarity.

"I...I will get my paints ready," Picasso's voice almost husky gulping hard a smile, as she lifts her disrobed hand, like a feather in the air.