The Moderns (1988)

The Moderns is the kind of movie that makes you want to linger in its world: a smoky, champagne-buzzed 1920s Paris where art is currency, romance is a complication, and every conversation feels like it’s happening at the next table in a café you wish you’d discovered first. Alan Rudolph doesn’t so much tell a story as paint one, mixing comedy, longing, and a sly sense of absurdity into a milieu rich with the Lost Generation’s glamour and hangover. Keith Carradine gives the struggling-artist drift a lived-in charm, Linda Fiorentino brings a cool, dangerous allure, and Wallace Shawn is perfectly, nervously alive in the corners. It can be a little loose and dreamy rather than neatly plotted, but if you’re on the fence and you like films that prioritize mood, style, and grown-up romantic messiness, this one is an easy passport stamp.

The Moderns wants to be a witty, boozy postcard from 1920s Paris—artists, cafés, famous literary cameos, and a forgery scheme that should feel like a sly romantic caper. The problem is it often plays like a series of languid hangouts and half-started ideas, with a tone that can drift into pretension and an awkward rhythm that makes the stakes feel oddly muted. If you need tight plotting, sharp comedy, or a romance you can really invest in, this may feel sloppy and ultimately unsatisfying. Still, Alan Rudolph does capture a certain dreamy expatriate vibe, and the cast (especially Linda Fiorentino and Wallace Shawn) can be enjoyable if you’re happy to just soak in the atmosphere rather than chase a payoff.