“They were careless people - they smashed up things and creatures and then retreated back into their money or their vast carelessness or whatever it was that kept them together, and let other people clean up the mess they had made.”
OK, well, if I’m not mistaken, this was a failed attempt to capture a young French girl named Adriana, from Bordeaux, if my art history serves me, who came to Paris to study costume design for the theater. I’m pretty sure she had an affair with Modigliani, then Braque, which is how Pablo met her. Picasso. Of course, what you don’t getfrom this portrait is the subtlety, and her beauty. She was just a knock-out. I’d hardly call this picture marvelous, it’s more of a petit-bourgeois statement on how Pablo sees her. Saw her. He’s distracted by the fact she’s an absolute volcano in the sack.
(Source: purplu, via awkwardking)
Like many of Woody Allen’s films, Midnight in Paris ends with a moral, this time vaguely self-deprecating, with an anti-nostalgia kick: Everyone wishes that he or she lived in another era, even people in that other era. It hurts because we know from Allen’s frames of reference that he’s often lost in pipe dreams of the past. But it’s possible there’s another kind of nostalgia at work in Midnight in Paris: not just longing for the Parisian twenties but for the days in which Allen regularly turned out freewheeling, pitch-perfect parodies like this. The movie is so good it’s takes you back to those days, which were the days, my friend.
— David Edelstein, New York Magazine (x)
(Source: aalejandrah, via aagrover)
