Bailey Henneberg Reviews 'Midnight in Paris'

So much was right with Woody Allen's "Midnight in Paris," but, alas, much was wrong with it too.

My main complaint, I'll count as a double complaint, is Allen's chattiness. At times the action seems contrived, included merely to turn Allen's mental regurgitations into a movie.

Mind you, Allen's thoughts can be interesting, but they are better suited to a pub than a movie screen. Sitting around analyzing life with Allen over a pint of beer would be an unforgettable experience. Throw in some beautiful streets and a few scene changes, and you have "Midnight in Paris."

Allen is clearly going to tell not show, but he at least gives settings that almost make you forget that you're hearing a monologue.

The goodies Allen tosses our way, eventually make up for the mental catharsis. One big compensation is the apropos casting of Owen Wilson as Allen, I mean Gil Pender. He plays the old Allen roles with a difference that works in an unexpected way. No one does angst-ridden better than Allen, but Wilson's surfer dude awe as Gil encounters the icons and artist greats of his idolized 1920s, is endearing.

The audience is spared death by talking, in part, through Wilson's deft delivery of Allen's lines.

Although a bit Purple Rose of France, the scintillating tapestry we encounter when meandering back to 1920s Paris begins to make up for the film's shortcomings.

I ultimately decided I could forgive the noise of the chatter for the lustre of Paris and for the magical moments when icons and artists take on flesh for modern eyes. From Hemingway and the Fitzgeralds to Picasso and T.S., they provide such charming daydream escapes.

Bottom line, go to see Paris in the '20s or for the cameos through time -- they give more than enough sizzle to wash away the monologue.