The Cineaste's Lament.

With his latest movie “To Rome, With Love” set to hit theaters this summer, the kids at Gawker contemplate the eternal question: Is it possible really love Woody Allen’s movies? Or do you just like them in much the same way that you like a kindly old uncle, who’s kinda funny, but keeps revisiting the same jokes?

Here’s the nut graf:

“I was discussing the Woody Allen Problem with someone who has firmly placed himself in the latter category. For him, there is nothing palatable about any of Allen’s movies. In response to my sputtering defense of the importance and greatness of some of his films he said, “You know, I am getting to a point in my life where I am worrying less about catching up on important things and just focusing on things I’m sure will make me happy. Statistically, Woody Allen movies are a roll of the die, you know.” I do know. And so does Woody Allen; this, ironically, is the premise many of his films are built on.”

Full disclosure: I loved “Midnight in Paris.” But not because it was a Woody Allen movie. As any of my friends will tell you, I’ve been obsessed with the writers of the Lost Generation since I was an undergraduate. And often, I’d give my eye teeth to be able to travel back in time to the 1920s to meet them when they were in their prime, before the rot and artistic slumps set in.

So, for me, the movie was about wish fulfillment and a chance to see the sights of Paris, which I visited when I was 20 and have not seen since. It most assuredly was not because it was a Woody Allen movie, though the sentimental romanticism of the film did affect me.

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