Writing - Elvin

What does it mean to be esoteric? What makes someone’s work subvert cliché? What does it mean for an idea to be arcane? How does it differ from being merely "complex"?

What’s intriguing about these questions is their focus on challenging or building upon preexisting or assumed knowledge—works addressing these topics often proceed by proposing a "new" or "more advanced" idea. Those engaging with the material are expected to know the conversation’s background to understand its true meaning; otherwise, it remains exclusive to those "educated" in the field. This is acceptable in non-literal contexts (academic or artistic discourse), so long as it is not a real-life conversation, as one can always learn or research before or after encountering the idea. In today’s world of accessible knowledge, anyone curious enough or respectful of the work would never claim insufficient background knowledge. That said, authors themselves should be aware of the degree of presumed knowledge required.

Therefore, the question becomes: to what degree can the audience match the author’s presumptions? Under-interpreting or over-interpreting both create deviations from original meanings, confusing the audience’s interpretation. To what extent should audiences study the background before or after engaging with the material, and to what extent should they isolate the work from its social/historical/cultural contexts? As Roland Barthes proposes in The Death of the Author, once a text is created, its ultimate interpretation belongs to the audience, not the author’s original intention. The significance of this analysis lies not in determining whether the author is "dead," but in how the audience’s exposure to different information can shift the work’s ultimate meaning.

With that in mind, this film analysis applies this stream of conscious thinking to Midnight in Paris. One might ask why these two topics are merged. On one hand, the work is often criticized as overly pretentious, with whimsical characters and a denial of historical reality that simplifies and romanticizes the past. On the other hand, as a classic artistic film by iconic director Woody Allen, it is recommended in contrast to other films. The movie’s themes—nostalgia, the myth of the golden age, idealism vs. reality—might encourage audiences to incorporate art and literary history into their understanding, while its unique blend of historical fantasy and reality-based comedy subverts this expectation. All these comments reflect the presumptions discussed above. It almost seems paradoxical when audiences try to guess the director’s intent and argue over the film’s "true" meaning, especially when over or under-interpreting leads to claims of it being under or overrated.

Stylistically, the film resists easy categorization due to its diverse elements. In traditional terms, it is a romantic comedy, with Allen serving as both director and writer. Additionally, it functions as a fantasy time-travel film. While it may rely on archetypes, its unconventional combination transcends them. It follows the "boy-meets-girl" arc (or rather, "boy-meets-idealized-girl-from-the-past"), and the central conflict isn’t just about love, but Gil’s internal journey of self-discovery. Gil’s midnight search for a car mirrors the overused Cinderella archetype of the pumpkin carriage. An audience less educated in film or literature might perceive this as original, while a more educated viewer might find it uninteresting or overused—or appreciate how Allen creates a dialogue between past works and the present. Archetypes tap into assumed universal human experiences to evoke resonance, serving as narrative shortcuts for nostalgia, romanticism, and existential longing. Yet relying on these archetypes without depth can make them seem oversimplified or culturally flattened. In this film, the question is not just how much the director uses archetypes, but how niche the audience’s acceptance or utilization of prepositions about these archetypes may be.

Gil embodies the archetype of the nostalgic dreamer, dissatisfied with contemporary life and yearning for a golden past. His obsession with the 1920s Paris of literature reflects a mythical impression, symbolizing humanity’s tendency to idealize the past and escape modernity. There are generally three layers to explain how audiences receive this message—though this is a linear measure, and reality involves a spectrum of interpretations across multiple gradients. For simplicity, these three layers illustrate how Midnight in Paris can be read differently.

For less educated audiences or those valuing a film’s surface meaning/effect: This is not to denounce such interpretations, as the ability to follow intuition and articulate emotions is not simple—it may even require more "training" to set aside other knowledge and focus on raw impacts. Here, audiences might think of the mythical golden era and its contrast with the modern world as more heartfelt and less superficial. The film evokes wonder and yearning without requiring prior knowledge of Parisian avant-garde movements. This interpretation is awestruck, and the film succeeds in this portrayal. Unconventional in blending reality and fantasy quickly, it blurs their boundaries, almost like a musical with dynamic action, expressive acting, and jazz that builds a dreamy, fleeting atmosphere. In this sense, the film is enjoyable. The messy, unclear plot becomes a blurred impression, not a flaw but a design to prioritize evoked feelings over memorability.

The film’s ending is particularly open to interpretation. Gil’s decision to stay in Paris and embrace the present, despite longing for the past, can signify self-discovery and growth. His confrontation with his fiancée and return to Malibu might reject reality, while his choice not to stay with Adriana and the past avoids an overly idealized world. It reminds us that while nostalgia is powerful, living in the present matters. Yet the final scene—walking in the rain with Gabrielle, the vinyl shop girl—restores Paris’s "magic," leaving ambiguity about whether to choose reality or romance. The director may imply that distinguishing strictly between the two is pointless; embracing life’s adventures, trusting intuition, and experiencing its offerings are more valuable. This conclusion may seem less thought-intensive, but it is no less deep than interpretations incorporating cultural context.

Interestingly, many criticisms argue that the portrayal of Paris and its era is oversimplified, rejecting it as romantic escapism rather than a nuanced portrait of a culturally vibrant era. Historical figures are exaggerated and disrespected, critics say, with the 1920s fantasized and characters falsified. Allen fails to capture true history, denouncing its significance. Culturally and artistically, this preys on uneducated audiences, reveling in luxury and debauchery, revealing intellectual laziness and a misused passion for niche, artistic themes that paradoxically please mass audiences. The film uses well-known historical figures to simplify the story, sacrificing nuanced exploration of the era. Instead of delving into complex historical and cultural contexts, the director relies on recognizable names to draw audiences, creating a false connection to the past.

The film reduces 1920s Paris to a glittering world of champagne, art, and intellectual banter, ignoring darker undercurrents like post-WWI social and political unrest. This may disrespect audiences expecting a sincere historical portrayal. Some may take offense at the film repackaging time travel with the Cinderella archetype to grapple with reality and idealism, glossing over how many era artists/writers faced complex philosophical questions, personal demons, and societal pressures. Allen diminishes their historical significance, as it is often pain, not witty conversations, that brings an artist’s work to life and creates resonance.

Exaggerated, comical portrayals of historical figures can seem disrespectful to their legacies. For example, Hemingway is reduced to a flat character obsessed with physical courage and literary toughness. As a result, the film is accused of catering to mass appeal at the expense of authenticity—shallow, glossy, and plastic beneath the surface.

The third interpretation acknowledges the above ideas and recognizes the director’s ironic framing of nostalgia. It is his sarcasm and irony toward how the past is fantasized. What seems shortsighted is actually a technique to criticize how people turn "legends" into flawless myths. The tone of muted humor aids in exaggerating characters through slapstick and brutal honesty. The ironic framing suggests Allen is aware of the film’s risk of seeming elitist and uses humor to deflate it. He invites viewers to question how we transform historical figures into mythic symbols—a process Gil himself embodies by idealizing the 1920s as an artistic haven.

A pivotal scene illustrates this critique: when Gil confesses to Hemingway that his novel is a "period piece set in the ’20s," Hemingway barks, "Write hard and clear about what hurts"—a nod to his real-life ethos (or at least modern perceptions of it). Hemingway’s exaggerated masculinity and insistence that Gil prove his "courage" by boxing are caricatures exposing Allen’s satirical intent. Allen wants viewers to reflect on how historical figures become symbols, not genuine humans. Similarly, Gil (and perhaps the audience) idealizes the 1920s, while the director mocks Dalí’s obsession with rhinos, taking his real-life eccentricity to comical extremes. Perhaps Allen isn’t aiming for historically accurate, complex characters but mirroring how less-educated modern audiences view so-called legends. By presenting exaggerated, farcical portrayals, he subtly mocks educated viewers who take themselves too seriously. When these viewers dismiss the film as shortsighted or disrespectful, they fall into Allen’s trap—their indignation reinforces the dynamic the film satirizes: an overly earnest, literal-minded approach to historical representation. In this way, Allen critiques the idea of a single "correct" way to depict the past.

This satire is reinforced by the film’s structural symmetry: the present-day Paris is shrouded in rain, while 1920s scenes glow in warm light, mirroring Gil’s psychological state—past as fantasy, present as dull. A memorable scene shows Picasso drawing a failed portrait of Adriana, criticized as lustful and misrepresenting her beauty. In reality, Paul misinterprets the drawing, which Gil angrily identifies as a failed work. The director first mocks people like Paul for spinning interesting stories from mundane things and overrating every Picasso work (which Gil’s fiancée accepts), then implies the golden age should not be fantasized, as it is flawed like modern reality—a rejection of nostalgia.

Adriana’s arc—Picasso’s ex-lover who, after praising the 1920s as "magical," shocks Gil by longing for the Renaissance, declaring, "The 1890s were so much more interesting than now"—encapsulates the film’s thesis: "Nostalgia is denial… the anxious refusal to accept the present." Gil’s journey rejects restorative nostalgia, culminating in his decision to stay in Paris without magic, embracing the present’s messiness. Confusingly, Paris remains a more dreamy cultural icon than the modern luxury of his fiancée’s desired Malibu house.

The film’s most provocative moment comes when Gil confronts F. Scott Fitzgerald about Zelda’s mental health. Fitzgerald replies, "You think marriage is hard? Try writing a novel with a wife who thinks she’s a princess from Mars." This fictionalized line nods to Zelda’s real struggles, but its purpose is deeper: to humanize the idols Gil worships, revealing flaws (Hemingway’s bullying, Picasso’s womanizing, Stein’s condescension) through exaggeration. Yet many critics overlook this nuance, fixating instead on whether Allen "gets" the 1920s right—a debate that misses the film’s meta-argument about interpretation.

After exploring this gradient of attitudes toward the film, one realizes that different presumptions yield radically different conclusions. This analysis does not aim to dictate a final interpretation but to show that varying background knowledge leads to diverse comments. The director may use this ambiguity to spark discussion, as many perspectives can be logically deduced. The question itself is inherently paradoxical and esoteric.