Written by Sara Alnashi
What if the past could reach out to you—not just as a memory, but as a place you could visit, even inhabit? Last Night in Soho (2021) and Midnight in Paris (2011) offer two very different journeys into bygone eras: one through the lens of psychological horror, the other as a whimsical romantic fantasy. Yet beneath their tonal contrasts lies a shared meditation on nostalgia—its seduction, its distortions, and the personal reckonings it demands.
At first glance, Edgar Wright’s Last Night in Soho and Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris seem to live on opposite ends of the cinematic spectrum. One is a neon-soaked thriller soaked in trauma and ghosts; the other, a charming, jazz-inflected time-traveling comedy. But despite their differences in tone, both films are united by a deep fascination with the allure of the past—and an equally strong urge to deconstruct it.
Both center on characters disillusioned with the present who find solace in idealized versions of the past. Through dreams, visions, and midnight escapades, they slip into other eras—only to discover that behind the glamour lies something far more complex, even unsettling. Together, Last Night in Soho and Midnight in Paris offer two sides of the same coin: how nostalgia seduces, deceives, and ultimately forces us to confront ourselves.
Nostalgia as Illusion
In Last Night in Soho, Ellie is a shy fashion student whose obsession with 1960s London is more than an aesthetic preference—it’s a form of escape. Alienated in the modern world, she clings to the Swinging Sixties as a golden age of style, music, and mystery. Her nightly visions of Sandie, a glamorous aspiring singer, give her a sense of purpose—until they turn into chilling hauntings that expose Soho’s darker underbelly.
Likewise, in Midnight in Paris, Gil is a successful but unfulfilled screenwriter vacationing in Paris. Longing for creative authenticity, he fantasizes about the 1920s—the age of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, and Picasso. At midnight, his fantasy comes alive, and he’s magically transported to his imagined golden age. But over time, he discovers that even the people he idealizes long for an earlier time—the Belle Époque—suggesting that every generation looks backward with longing.
In both films, nostalgia begins as comfort and ends as confrontation. The past is not a sanctuary—it’s a mirror. Their nostalgia isn’t just aesthetic—it’s deeply emotional. Both Ellie and Gil are searching for clarity, purpose, and identity in worlds that feel chaotic and unmoored.
Romanticizing Glamour
Stylistically, both films indulge in the aesthetic pleasures of their chosen eras. Soho is drenched in vintage shimmer: club lights, Dusty Springfield ballads, and mod fashion. Ellie doesn’t just admire the 60s—she embodies it, reshaping her image to mirror Sandie’s. Her fascination borders on obsession.
Midnight in Paris similarly luxuriates in its romantic vision of the Roaring Twenties. Gil strolls through candlelit cafés, mingles with literary icons, and dances to Cole Porter. When he confesses his love for the 1920s to a woman from that time, she in turn dreams of the Belle Époque. Nostalgia, it seems, is a hall of mirrors—always reflecting something further back.
But both films eventually dismantle these illusions. In Soho, the dream becomes a nightmare. The 1960s Ellie worships is revealed to be a world of exploitation and misogyny, where women like Sandie—whom she idolizes—were objectified, abused, and ultimately forgotten. In Paris, the artists Gil admires are shown to be flawed, conflicted, and discontented. The charm begins to crack, and reality intrudes.
Facing Reality and Accepting the Present
At their core, both stories are about coming to terms with the present. Ellie is haunted—literally—by the trauma buried beneath her fantasy. Her journey shifts from admiration to accountability: she must confront the violence, injustice, and psychological wounds of the past. In the end, Ellie designs a fashion collection not based on illusion, but on truth—honoring Sandie’s memory while forging her own voice.
Gil, too, must reckon with his escapism. His longing for the past is a way to avoid his unsatisfying engagement and creative block. But after seeing how every era idealizes a lost golden age, he chooses to remain in the present. He ends his relationship, embraces a simpler life, and walks through the rain with a kindred spirit—finding beauty not in fantasy, but in what’s right in front of him.
In both cases, the journey into the past isn’t about escape—it’s a detour toward clarity. The past may be intoxicating, but living there comes at a cost. What Ellie and Gil ultimately gain isn’t the past itself, but the strength to face the present.
Where Soho uses horror to confront the dangers of romanticizing the past, Midnight in Paris uses whimsy to show the futility of it. But both deliver the same message: the past can inspire, but it cannot save.
When the Past Isn’t Where You Belong
Last Night in Soho and Midnight in Paris are cinematic love letters to bygone eras—but also cautionary tales. Through vivid dreamscapes and haunted night walks, they ask: What are we really longing for when we long for the past? Is it beauty, simplicity, escape—or something deeper, like meaning or belonging?
In the end, both Ellie and Gil return to the present—not because it’s perfect, but because it’s real. And that may be the most powerful journey of all.
Despite their genre differences, both films arrive at the same emotional truth: nostalgia is a seductive storyteller, but a poor guide. Whether through horror or humor, both caution against romanticizing history without acknowledging its pain, contradictions, and ghosts.
The past can move us. It can shape who we are. But it cannot hold us. Real growth—and real beauty—comes from choosing to live fully in the present, imperfect as it may be. As Ellie and Gil discover, the future can only begin once we stop chasing yesterday.
Nostalgia in Context: A Reflection on Kuwait Television
What makes Last Night in Soho and Midnight in Paris especially resonant is how they don’t just expose the illusions of nostalgia—they also propose a way forward. Rather than dismiss the past, they encourage us to engage with it critically, to recognize its beauty and its pain, and to use that awareness as a foundation for growth.
This approach could be meaningful in a context like Kuwait Television, where nostalgia remains a dominant cultural thread—especially in Ramadan programming, heritage shows, and re-runs of golden-era dramas. These programs often present the past as a lost utopia, but rarely ask: what are we forgetting in our longing?
Like Ellie and Gil, we might begin to see that the past is best honored not by recreating it wholesale, but by learning from it—and moving forward with greater self-awareness.
