In the scandalously popular new Woody Allen film, Midnight in Paris, Allen surrogate Owen Wilson swoons over his encounters with the literati and glitterati of the 1920s, an age that the character has long envisioned as a so-called “Golden Age.” And, in the course of events, he comes to realize that such halcyon periods are usually those just before one’s majority and, alas, with all traces of unpleasantries conveniently teased out. (How true, how true.) Nonetheless, we all harbor treasured illusions (delusions?) about a time in the past when we would have found things, well, more to our liking. For many moviegoers, it isn’t Paris in the Twenties that causes them to sigh deeply, but Paris After The War—that is, the Paris After the War depicted in movies such as An American in Paris with Gene Kelly, easel in hand, skipping jauntily down the Champs Elysee and in his Pierrot costume romancing an insouciant Leslie Caron at the Beaux Arts ball and jette-ing all over the place to the music of George Gershwin. No, it really wasn’t quite like that…but we’ll always have “Paris,” An American in Paris that is, and, for a couple hours, an exquisite illusion. 115 minutes. Directed by Vincente Minnelli.