Why do I keep allowing Woody Allen to do this to me? Time after time I allow myself to get suckered by good reviews and loose talk of a return to form. It’s like I never learnt anything from Match Point. Woody isn’t a complete spent force (I enjoyed some of Melinda and Melinda and Whatever Works raised a few simple chuckles), but you can’t compare any of his recent work to the likes of Manhattan and Crimes and Misdemeanors. And the fact that Midnight in Paris got nominated for Best Picture is pure insanity. Apparently some directors just have to take a crap on the screen to get nominated while others can produce the best work of their life and get silently shafted.

You could argue that the beginning of Midnight in Paris, with a couple of minutes of shots of the spectacular French capital, is a companion piece to the beginning of Manhattan. It’s almost something of a love note. But while Manhattan had a breathless beginning, full of wit and poetry and spectacular photography, this is just a tourist’s view of the city. There’s no real insight. It’s merely an uninspired visual roll call of Paris’ most famous spots.

This tourist’s eye view of a major European city is something that plagued Match Point. You never really felt that Woody knew London. It felt completely at odds with his insider view of New York. And this feeling stretches to Paris. I don’t doubt that he’s visited the city a great many times, but the whole film is a bland kind of touristy wish-fulfillment. Beneath the central conceit of the movie (Owen Wilson, after midnight, can go back in time), there isn’t a thought deeper than, ‘Wouldn’t it be cool to go back in time and hang out with Ernest Hemingway and F.Scott Fitzgerald for a while...’

Call me crazy, but I expect something with a bit more substance than that when it comes to Best Picture nominees. And most criminal of all, for an Allen comedy, it’s not even that funny. Owen Wilson just lumbers around, doing a sub-par Woody Allen impression.

The only time that the film came close to making me laugh was during the scenes with Michael Sheen. Drunk with his own bullshit, Sheen plays a pretentious, pseudo-intellectual twit who undermines Gil (Wilson) at every turn. He’s so casually rude and tactless that he’s borderline sociopathic. Yet for some reason Gil’s fiance adores this nincompoop.

You know that Gil’s fiance is worthless because everything she wears has some sort of denim. Here she is in Paris, one of the most beautiful, chic cities in the world and she’s wearing a denim dress. How pathetically American of her. Oh, and she has neo-conservative parents.

I can see why Allen makes everyone so risible. He wants us to fall in line and stick rigidly behind Gil. But the characters are so overwhelmingly cartoonish that I couldn’t believe in them.

Firstly, I can’t believe that such conservative parents would want to spend any time in Paris, even if it was just for some business. Surely, given all the ridiculous hatred towards the French (hand me some Freedom Fries!), this should be the last place they would want to be. Secondly, what is Gil doing with such a wretched woman? His fiance talks down to him, she dismisses him at every turn and she’s clearly having an affair with Michael Sheen. The fact that Gil would stay with this woman, and consider marrying her, reflects very poorly on him. He’s an idiot for associating with these people.

But of course, the fact that his present day life is so dismal is meant to make the trip back in time all that much sweeter. It’s part of the whole ‘golden age thinking’ theory that’s presented. Almost everyone is disappointed with the present. Most people think that everything was better at a certain point in the past. It’s the one interesting thought that the film has.

Being even more of a slave to golden age thinking than most, Gil is delighted to be whisked away to a Paris where Hemingway, F.Scott Fitzgerald and Picasso are roaming the streets. But the character is such a fanboy, and has so little to say, that all of his encounters are nothing more than a painfully shallow fawning. There’s so little meat in this film, it’s incredible. It’s like Allen never managed to get beyond the concept.

One of the few things that I could connect to was Gil’s love of city life. He argues that no writer or painter or musician is ever going to create something that’s going to compete with a great city - each corner and each street is its own special art form. And I kind of agree. No film, no book and no piece of music can compete with my beloved London. They just can’t get close.

Eventually Gil recognises the flaw in his thinking and decides to return to the present forever. But this is only because Adriana (Marion Cotillard), the object of his affection, finds a portal to yet another part of Paris’s past. She wants to live in the Belle Epoque. Aghast that she wants to live in a time without penicillin, they go their separate ways.

With this disappointment, Gil finally realises the futility of nostalgia. Yes the present might be painful and unsatisfactory, but such is life. No matter where we are, most of us are destined to want more. It’s human nature. But any depth or melancholy is eschewed for a standard Hollywood ending. Gil breaks up with his horrible fiance and then bumps into a girl he met earlier - a girl who sells antiques at a local market. Of course, the girl is incredibly young and very attractive and they both remark upon how they love Paris in the rain. They then walk off, presumably to enjoy Paris as a couple. The triteness and neatness of this is the final nail in the coffin of a horribly mediocre film. I might go and watch Deconstructing Harry to get rid of the stench.

I’m sure that the first thing that springs into people’s minds when they see Armageddon is why did they shoot a deep core drilling team into space? Why not train astronauts to bore a hole into an asteroid? After all, these people are among the most intelligent, most disciplined, most skilled individuals on the planet. But the film tells us that drilling is an art. Apparently boring a hole into a rock would be too much for a bunch of scientists and pilots.

The real answer is that Michael Bay and Jerry Bruckheimer despise astronauts and what they represent. They represent education and all the evils that come with it. You know, things like patience, dedication and coolness under pressure. Real men work hard and play hard. They don’t do their job quietly and methodically. Hell, you get a bunch of astronauts to blow up an asteroid and you’d probably fall asleep at the lack of Star Wars references. They’re a bunch of boring pussies.

The drillers are supposed to be a bunch of everymen. They’re supposed to be guys that you can identify with. But would you want a bunch of regular guys trying to save the planet? I think if an asteroid were to hit us that I’d want exceptional people to rescue us. I wouldn’t want to entrust my life and the life of the planet to Joe the plumber or a guy called Harry who drills for oil.

The first time we see Harry (Bruce Willis), he’s hitting golf balls at a Greenpeace boat. Take that you fucking dickless liberals! How dare you care about the planet! How dare you criticise the American right to rape the shit out of the Earth! If it were up to you we’d all be speaking Russian and riding oxen to work, you pinko turds.

To illustrate what a great guy Harry is, he tries to shoot a man who sleeps with his daughter. That’s real mature. I mean, did you expect her to remain pure forever? Did you think that she was always going to be yours? Well, Harry seems to think that way. So much so that the very idea that she’d have sex with a man makes him break out in a jealous rage.

But in Harry’s defence, his daughter does sleep with Ben Affleck. I mean, if you had a daughter and she slept with Ben Affleck, you’d get a gun out as well, wouldn’t you?

The other ‘heroes’ of the film are the usual ridiculous ragtag bunch. You have Steve Buscemi as a sex-obsessed joker, Owen Wilson as a cowboy type, Will Patton as an estranged father, Michael Clarke Duncan as a dumb black man and some fatso who doesn’t really do much. They’re among the most unlikeable group of guys you can imagine. Well, they’re unlikable if you’re a smarmy, godless communist. If you’re an honest, salt of the earth, beer-swilling redneck, you’ll probably think they’re swell. I mean, heroes who only save the world so that they can stop paying tax? U.S.A! U.S.A!

The first time a piece of asteroid hits the planet, it hits New York. What a surprise, eh? And so therefore the damage only extends to tourists, liberals and some ethnic minorities. No big loss. But then NASA learns that a bigger asteroid is heading for them and that some decent people might get killed. This news that a global killer is heading for the planet leads to hushed mutterings of, ‘My god’.

Michael Bay’s handling of non-white folks is always precious and he outdoes himself in this movie. Near the beginning we see a motor-mouthed black man riding a bicycle with an ugly dog inside. Why, I’m not quite sure. But the man is an idiot and then proceeds to have an argument with another silly NWP*. Oh those crazy minorities. The stuff they get up to. Needless to say they get hit by a piece of asteroid, the useless fuckers.

Then about two scenes later we have a cartoonish Asian businessman turn up. He’s all smiles and speaks in a funny accent. And then when the drillers strike oil, he gives the thumbs up and says, ‘You’re the man Harry!’ as he drips black gold all over his suit.

But most heinous of all, you have Michael Clarke Duncan. He’s a big, muscular bozo who does what he’s told and who doesn’t have a brain cell in his head. Therefore he’s the good kind of black man. He’s the grateful kind who takes orders well and who won’t fuck Harry’s daughter. He’s also a fucking baby. During a psych test he begins crying and says that he’d like a hug. Awww, the silly black man. I’m sure some fried chicken and watermelon will calm those nerves of yours.

We also have some marvellous hatred of the French. I mean, Bay doesn’t just come out and say, ‘Don’t those smelly, cheese-eating surrender monkeys suck miles of cock?’ but he does have Paris annihilated. From the viewpoint of the gargoyle on Notre Dame we see the city get obliterated. And is there any real comment on this? Is there an expression of sadness at the fact that one of the most beautiful cities in the world has been destroyed? Nope. It’s hardly mentioned. After all, Paris is hardly Omaha or Mobile or Dallas. The destruction of those fine cities would maybe warrant tears, but a few frogs getting vaporized is an insignificant footnote.

When the film’s not trying to be offensive, it’s trying to make you puke. The romance between Affleck and Liv Tyler seems to represent the way of life the drillers are trying to preserve. But this is a man who wants to stuff crackers down his girlfriend’s knickers and this is a couple that smooches in a rocket booster. If they’re a symbol of life on Earth then let the asteroid hit and wipe us from existence.

We also have to listen to the President make a speech as clichéd shots of various nations flash across the screen. It’s like Michael Bay’s sole exposure to the world comes through Michael Jackson videos and Benneton commercials. The French sit at cafes, Asians eat endless noodles, Indians sit by the Taj Mahal (of course) and good old Americans gather round in antique automobiles. Bay’s view of the world is so infantile it beggars belief.

But wouldn’t you know it, it takes a few good Americans to preserve this way of life. A few good roughnecks.

The drillers are in space for like ten seconds before shit starts blowing up – a space station gets destroyed and a shuttle then gets hit by a piece of asteroid. This leads us to one of Michael Bay’s trademarks – men falling to their knees in slow-motion and muttering ‘My god’ as all hope seems lost. But this time it’s better. This time Billy Bob Thorton does it after dropping a NASA mug. Must Bay do this in every film? Isn’t there any other way of communicating deep despair?

After the shuttle crash the astronauts proceed to fart about on an asteroid that looks curiously like the Fortress of Solitude, and an asteroid that seems to have the same gravity as Earth…but only when the script calls for it. When the script wants things to go haywire people fly into space with reckless abandon, but for the most part, they’re fine.

One of the occasions where some convenient gravity comes into play is when Ben Affleck decides to jump a canyon in a space vehicle called The Armadillo. At first it seems like they haven’t got a chance of jumping it, but wouldn’t you know it, the normal gravity stops for a while and they fly over it with ease.

Speaking of the Armadillo, why the hell has it got a mini-gun on it? Are they expecting to encounter aliens or Muslims up there, or even Muslim aliens? What’s the point? Oh yeah, I forgot. It’s so that Affleck can conveniently blast his way out of a fix and so that Steve Buscemi’s character can go nuts.

‘He’s got space dementia!’ Yes, that’s how Buscemi’s madness is described when he decides it would be a great idea to try and blow the asteroid up with a mini-gun. And I thought it was just a Muse song.

Another line that had me scratching my head was, ‘I blew the tranny.’ Do they have trannies in space and how would the blowing work in a vaccum? Oh, he means the transmission. My mistake…

One of the most awful scenes occurs when one of the shuttle’s pilots is being choked out by Harry. You see, the nuclear bomb that’s going to destroy the asteroid is going to be remotely detonated by the government wanktoids on Earth. Of course Harry wants to stop this. Annoyingly, though, the pilot wants to follow orders. But this is a Michael Bay movie. People don’t follow orders here. They go by gut instinct. And so Harry decides to choke the guy. And would you believe it, with 60 seconds left to go before the bomb detonates, Harry manages to choke the guy, convince him that he’s wrong and get the guy to recover from his choking and disarm the bomb. In 60 seconds! Honestly, the guy is being choked and can hardly breath and in the next shot he’s on his feet disarming the bomb. He didn’t even have to get tools. They just magically appear in his hand.

Another awful scene is when Affleck draws the short straw. You see, the bomb can no longer be remotely detonated, so someone is going to have to detonate it by hand. This responsibility falls to Affleck. But before he can do it, Harry takes the burden upon himself. So therefore we have to suffer the sound and sight of Affleck shouting, ‘I love you Harry’ as Harry walks off to his certain death. Never before or since has Affleck sounded so retarded.

In most films Harry would say his goodbyes and do his duty, but this being a Michael Bay film, it seems like Harry says goodbye to his daughter for a couple of hours. A single tear flows down Harry’s cheek as he realises that she’s going to end up with that horse-faced knobhead.

The end of the film sees Affleck and Tyler getting married as a photo of Harry watches on. We’re supposed to think that he’d be pleased at this union, but we know the truth. Harry is sad that it isn’t him who’s in Affleck’s position.

*Non-white person

Once again we have a Wes Anderson film about strained family relationships full of quirky characters, but here the formula feels tired. Anderson’s characters have never really existed in the real world, but they’ve always been funny and likeable enough for you to care. Here, though, in general, I didn’t give a toss about them.

The character that comes out worst in the film is Jack, played by Jason Schwartzman. He’s a midget lothario who, despite the fact that he has no personality and is about three foot tall, dips his wick into an absurd amount of snatch. Quite what the women see in the wee man, I don’t know.

Maybe it’s because he allows even short-arses like Natalie Portman to feel big. In real life she’s, like, four foot two? But here, against this vertically challenged hipster, she looks like a giant. It’s obvious that she wants some midget that she can dominate.

In the opening short film Hotel Chevalier, we see the supposed ‘complicated’ relationship that these two people share. Portman has one or two bruises, which of course means that she’s tortured, and Jack says he doesn’t care when Portman says she’d never hurt him on purpose. This means that he’s dead inside – worn down by the crippling weight of the world.

This means that life must be really bad for Jack. But no, he lives in an upscale hotel room in Paris and seems to be a successful writer. Fair enough, money and success doesn’t guarantee happiness, but the film is overwhelmingly glib. All we get from these people are annoying one liners. ‘We fuck, I’m going to feel like shit tomorrow.’ ‘That’s okay with me.’ This pithy dialogue doesn’t generate any sympathy or understanding. It just reminds us that we’re watching a pair of annoying hipsters playing silly games with each other because they’re incapable of communicating properly. Getting to the point or talking like real human beings would be so fucking lame. Much better to let your ipod and the annoyingly twee songs contained within to make the point instead.

The opening short film is also frustrating because as well as failing to feed one’s brain, it also fails to feed one’s basic instincts. There’s a bit where we see Natalie Portman’s bum. Okay, even though she’s a horrible actress and basically she’s a head on a stick, I’m always up for seeing some celebrity toosh. But then later, there’s a bit where she’s naked. Great, some celebrity tits, too! Er, no. Once again we have an annoying tease of a film that is tit shy. Apparently the film is ‘artistic’ enough to have people say outrageous words like ‘fuck’ and it’s daring enough to show arse, but tits are beyond the pale. Grrr. Just show us your breasts, Portman. Stop fucking teasing us.

But Jack’s inexplicable success with the opposite sex extends to the feature film also. No sooner is he aboard the train than he’s declaring his intention to bone an attractive Indian girl who serves drinks. With blank eyes devoid of conviction, he says that he wants her. You laugh at his pathetic optimism, but then a few scenes later he nails the woman. The scene is jarring in the ease with which Jack scores and it adds very little to the film. Oh, he’s using sex as a way to ease his crippling pain. Okay, but at least make him work a little for it. He only has to mumble a couple of words and show her his absurd facial shrubbery before he’s balls deep in her.

The other brothers are almost equally annoying. Peter (Adrien Brody), for no real discernible reason, other than the fact that he likes using pills, decides it would be a great idea to bring a poisonous snake onboard. Maybe if he were a smackhead in the Russell Brand mould, I could understand such behaviour, but Peter isn’t a junkie. He’s just a sad sack who likes to pop pills every now and again.

As expected, the whole snake bit doesn’t really go anywhere, and the payoff – when they rush out of their room and get thrown off the train – is hardly worth the effort. The snake is just there to get the brothers off the train.

The film only really succeeds when it becomes knuckleheaded. There’s an amusing bit where two of the brothers begin fighting and then Jack tells them that even though he loves them, he’s going to mace them in the face. I also like some of the childishness. Owen Wilson’s character has a helper called Brendan who is helping draw up daily itineraries. Despite this, Wilson treats the guy like dirt…which is consistently amusing. And it’s also funny, at the end, when Wilson muses that Brendan might perhaps be his friend. When the film isn’t straining to make a point or indulging in pointless quirkiness, it’s enjoyable.

But unfortunately there’s too much straining for this to be anything other than a rather painful experience. For instance, there’s a sequence when the brothers come across some locals trying to cross a river. Unfortunately an accident occurs, and even though the brothers try and help, a child drowns. The change in tone is a little jarring (although this isn’t necessarily a bad thing), but the attempts to build some meaning out of it are pitiful. What basically happens is that a child drowns, the brothers feel a little bad and then get to go to the funeral while walking ever so coolly and mournfully in slow-motion as they’re accompanied by a piece of music that Wes Anderson probably heard while shuffling through his itunes the night before filming. It’s cheap, shallow, pointless filmmaking.

The juxtaposition of the funeral with the events leading up to the funeral of the brothers’ father also feels a little wrong. When the brothers’ father died, they went their own separate ways and fell apart. But when this Indian child dies, they’re brought together. Yes, that’s what is required in order to heal wounds – we need faceless locals to bite the bullet for us to show that life is really worth living. I mean, your dad dying is just an excuse to indulge in some adolescent grief. You can pout a little, take some pills and write some bad stories. But unless you wise up, you might die like a wog – crashing against the rocks of a river without an Urban Outfitters in sight. That would be awful, wouldn’t it?

The symbolism at the end of the film is easy to interpret. We see the three brothers running towards the train and discarding their luggage so that they can get on board. You see, they’re getting rid of their old baggage. They’re making a fresh start. They’re letting go of the past. It only needed a faceless brown child to die to make everything okay.