I've been hostile about Woody Allen's "grand tour" of Europe, in which the New Yorker has attempted to revitalise his fading creativity by relocating first to London – where Match Point and Cassandra's Dream were disasters – then Barcelona, for the only slightly more assured Vicky Cristina Barcelona.

My chief impression, and criticism, has been of a director recreating unfamiliar cities from the pages of a Baedeker. That tendency is even more pronounced in Midnight In Paris. And yet, this time, the result really clicks. And that’s because Allen has cannily made the tourist’s enthusiasm for the French capital and its artistic heritage the very subject of his story, presenting a character lost, quite literally, in his reveries of Paris past and present. In so doing the writer/director rediscovers some of his old insight and wit.

Gil (Owen Wilson) is an amiably goofy American in Paris, on holiday with his fiancée (Rachel McAdams) and utterly seduced by the city. A Hollywood scriptwriter who regards himself as a bit of a hack, Gil is in the grip of that hoary dream of a Left Bank garret, a baguette under his arm and a novel in the oven. Sadly for him, his girl doesn’t get the city at all. The tension between them mounts.

One night, while walking alone, he is approached by a horse-drawn carriage, ushered inside, and transported back in time to the Paris of the 1920s. Here he meets, in quick succession, Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald, Ernest Hemingway, Cole Porter, Gertrude Stein and Picasso. Is he dreaming, delusional, mad? We never know. But from here on, Gil spends his days in the present, bored and misunderstood, his nights blissfully in the past.

Wilson is crucial to this conceit succeeding. On Gil’s first, frolicsome night with the Fitzgeralds, the actor’s face presents a rainbow of emotions – from incomprehension and shock, through resignation to delight – that draws us into the fantasy with him. And as Allen throws the A-Z of the twenties avant-garde at the screen, Owen’s charm and joyfulness transform guffaws into laughter.

The film is funniest in the exchanges between the would-be writer and the iconic artists he encounters, particularly the Surrealists, led by Adrian Brody’s hilarious Salvador Dali. But Allen also has a serious theme. As Gil falls for Picasso’s latest model (Marion Cotillard) and goes further back in time, to the belle époque, he recognises the danger of nostalgia, of seeing the “golden” in any age other than his own.

Actor Paddy Considine makes a fine directorial debut with Tyrannosaur, an intense drama that follows the trajectories of two very different characters – Joseph (Peter Mullan), a lonely and violent drunk, and Hannah (Olivia Colman), a Christian whose faith is being tested by her abusive husband.

When the pair meet, it seems the only exchange can be the comfort Hannah will give the volatile Joseph, if he chooses to accept it. But as her situation becomes unbearable, the roles are slowly reversed. Shot in Leeds, this is an unflinching gaze at human beings at their lowest ebb, clinging to each other for dear life. It’s hard to watch, but the brilliant leads ensure that we do. No-one can portray destructive behaviour as fearsomely, but also as subtly, as Mullan, while Colman is heartbreaking.