woody allen's VICKY CRISTINA BARCELONA (2008)

there's no disputing (even, sadly, among those little familiar with his actual work) that Woody Allen is an amorous sort of guy. throughout four prolific decades his work has focused largely on the interactions of the human heart, and sexuality has always been a part of that, from the ribaldry of his early comedies to the lustful indiscretions of his heavier dramas.

it's a little strange, then, that he would make thirty-eight feature films before getting around to Vicky Cristina Barcelona, the latest shaky step in his encouraging late-career course correction. the film, sunny and sensuous by design, follows its titular Americans (Rebecca Hall and Scarlett Johansson, respectively) on a Spanish holiday during which a Catalan painter (Javier Bardem) forces them to reevaluate their opposing views on love and romance, particularly when his tempestuous ex-wife (Penelope Cruz) returns to his home and his life.

these loaded ideas (Vicky's monogamous stability vs. Cristina's pursuit of passion) are obviously central to Allen's thought process, but for much of its running time the film glides lightly, if sometimes sloppily, along; whether it's the location, the themes, or both, Vicky Cristina Barcelona exists miles away from the grave melodramas and trifling laff-pits that have lately dominated his output. Spain and its environs (particularly Antoni Gaudi's stunning architecture) are done full justice, and the four leads bring a palpable chemistry to their increasingly delicate situation. (Bardem alone is a veritable swoon-factory, likely to seduce the tablecloth right off the table were two of the screen's great beauties not hanging around.)

but as odd as it may be to fault a 72-year-old man for not making a sexier movie, the shortage of genuine steam is the film's undoing. superficially it's all there, and there are sequences for which that's quite enough, but in the end the tone falls prey to the very dilemma being posesd thematically: love does not exist to be figured out, or overthought. (we know these are the themes because the talky proceedings, including an unwelcome, oddly clinical narration, conspicuously telegraph them throughout.) Vicky Christina Barcelona is a film about the heart and certain points south, so it's a shame Woody so rarely lets us out of his head.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

billy wilder's THE SEVEN YEAR ITCH (1955)

mitchell lichtenstein's TEETH (2007)

spike lee's SHE'S GOTTA HAVE IT (1986)

finally available on DVD, She’s Gotta Have It is as assured a first feature as exists in independent film, and of notably modest origins to boot; Lee strides with confidence, even arrogance, through a witty, intimate portrait of libertine Nola Darling (Tracy Camilla Johns), a small constellation of friends and a trio of suitors: the genial Jamie (Tommy Hicks), the vain Greer Childs (John Canada Terrell) and Lee’s own fast-talking alter-ego Mars Blackmon. unapologetic in her embrace of her own sexuality, Nola juggles the three men much as they’ve surely juggled other women, giving way to a funny, sexy, surprisingly perceptive survey of sexual politics circa the mid-1980s.

in fact, Spike’s subsequent (and only intermittently productive) preoccupation with racial issues is nowhere to be found in She’s Gotta Have It, which makes the film all the more significant within his body of work; not only does he focus all of his energy on Nola’s personal plight (as well as a startlingly accomplished comedic performance as Mars) but in forgetting to address race directly he actually manages his first forward push for African American cinema, making a universally smart, accessible film about human sexuality in which all the characters just happen to be black.

sadly, years of waiting for a lovingly prepared DVD (I can finally toss out my battered VHS) are for naught: MGM’s release is the very definition of barebones, showcasing an indie hallmark without so much as a trailer to accompany it. where’s the Lee commentary? (if he can write a whole book about the film’s production, he can surely jaw about it for ninety minutes.) furthermore, where’s Mars Blackmon’s “It’s Gotta Be The Shoes” commercials with Michael Jordan? a missed opportunity for too-long overlooked film, but a joy to have available nonetheless.

(abridged from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)