A degree of patience may be required in viewing Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris. Mostly, it’s a romantic detour to join the half-dozen or so other such films in his oeuvre. But a classic (in the mode of Manhattan) it is not. Midnight in Paris has a love story at its core -- which never quite resonates because the dialogue sounds contrived and unrealistic. Ordinary folk don’t talk like the characters in Allen’s screenplays. They never have. 

Actor Owen Wilson is given a role which suits him as much as carrying a basket full of fruit on his head. The trouble begins when it’s revealed that his character, Gil Pender, writes movie scripts and plans to publish his first novel. Fiancée Inez (Rachel McAdams) clearly loves her man although she can’t help getting all googly-eyed when “pseudo-intellectual” Paul (Michael Sheen) turns up on the scene, providing some interesting, if pedantic, commentary on the sights and delights of Paris.

Of course, that’s only part of the story. When Gil wanders around the city at midnight, he finds himself in a different timeframe – the 1920s – surrounded by geniuses from the literary and artistic fields, such as Ernest Hemingway (Corey Stoll) and Salvador Dali (Adrien Brody). What most captivates Gil’s attention is Pablo Picasso’s mistress, Adriana (Marion Cotillard). No matter how hard he tries to carry on with his “present” state of affairs, Gil can’t help himself or his growing attraction to the “Golden Age” of his favourite city.

Woody Allen takes pains, especially during a laborious 3-4 minute opening sequence, to set the light, airy tone of Midnight in Paris. He succeeds only in setting the audience up for a prosaic ride, a journey with few character arcs and little depth. He lays out his visual plan with all the finesse of a matador. The on-the-nose cinematography (by Darius Khondji) and repetitive soundtrack (with its Django-esque guitar feel) becomes tiresome awfully quick. The editing also feels less than seamless. In particular, the transition between different periods is limited in effectiveness, lacking the punch of an imaginative twist.

Owen Wilson doesn’t so much act or react as he walks around trying to imitate the body language and speech patterns of his director. Unfortunately, this approach carries neither the definitive edge of Michael Caine in Hannah and Her Sisters (1986) nor the partial charisma of Jonathan Rhys Meyers as seen in Match Point (2005).

Overall, Allen’s script sleepily conjures a past existence, using some fancy phrases and observations that sound like clichéd hiccups. The supporting cast, which includes Michael Sheen, becomes lost in the shuffle. The women, from major to minor roles, are treated like eye candy and probably will be remembered as little more than that.

Midnight in Paris might make a neat short film or university project. It’s a slight novelty that, by its very length of 90 minutes, assumes most filmgoers will want to fish out ten dollars to enjoy its thinly conceived plot. I happen to believe audiences demand and deserve more from a comedy.

(Released by Sony Classics and rated “PG-13” for some sexual references and smoking.)