Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris is a minor gem in a late-career period too often stifled by creative stagnancy. The film finds Allen at his most relaxed and engaging, concocting a bewitching, wistfully romantic fantasy that doubles as a passionate reverie on Paris, nostalgia and art. Owen Wilson makes for one of the more likeable Allen surrogates in a long while, his laidback performance as Gil, a Hollywood screenwriter visiting Paris with his fiancee Inez (Rachel McAdams), is a genial, heartfelt delight, a true “Golden Age” dreamer whose naivete we can all recognise. In a reality-bending twist reminiscent of Allen’s 1985 The Purple Rose of Cairo, Gil finds himself, whilst strolling the city at midnight, shuttled off into the roaring twenties where he’s able to interact with his writing heroes (Fitzgerald, Hemingway) and art luminaries (Picasso, Dali) while seizing an opportunity for romance with a fetching model named Adriana (Marion Cotillard). Wisely, Allen doesn’t belabour the time-travel element, leaving it to the audience to interpret it as they wish. And it’s a testament to his prickly-yet-elegant writing that all the in-jokey stuff (see Gil suggesting the premise of what will later become Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie to a confused Luis Bunuel), doesn’t irritate, but remains charming and at best, witty.