Metropolitan

I saw Whit Stillman's Metropolitan last night. Described as a "great afternoon film" by my friend Al, it is simply a great film. Not great in the grand scheme of things perhaps, but great nonetheless.



The tone is perfect. It manages to balance the arch dialogue ("I'm a committed Socialist yes but not a Marxist. I prefer the socialist model developed by the 19th century socialist critic Fourier") and intentionally mannered acting with a wonderful deftness. It helps that there is a constant stream of funny one-liners ("playing strip poker with an exhibitionist somehow takes the challenge out of it"), largely delivered by Chris Eigeman's Nick Smith. It has a consistency to it, the lines don't sound contrived even though they are.

It is like a cross between Woody Allen's films and JD Salinger's short stories. Metropolitan is as quintessentially New York as both Allen and Salinger, the characters in this film as firmly rooted in the Big Apple as Alvy Singer or Zooey Glass. It's part of the film's allure, that it presents us with this classic image of New York, New York at Christmas, New York's rich young things, great parties, balls, debutantes. It's a cinematic box of expensive chocolates; a wilful ignorance of the "real" New York that no-one wants to see and gives us our dream New York, the city we all want to be rich and young in.