Woody Allen has always been more miss than hit for me, and whilst I can’t say it blew me away, there was something seductively infectious about this film.
Owen Wilson plays things with such charisma and passion for Paris- the city, its history, art, culture, literature- that despite having no interest in the same things, I believed in his character completely. Rachel McAdams makes the most of a pretty thankless role, and Michael Sheen steals his scenes as the slimy “pedantic” Paul. Both are odious enough to drive Wilson into the arms of Marion Cotillard, who has the required amount of allure to be a convincing distraction from Wilson’s humdrum life.
It all flies by pretty quickly, and it makes its point quite nicely, but for all its highbrow intentions, it’s ultimately a bit of throwaway fluff. And there’s nothing wrong with that.