woody allen's EVERYONE SAYS I LOVE YOU (1996)

in regards to Woody Allen i've gone, over time, from fanboydom to apologism and now to distanced respect for his middling work and disdain for the lesser stuff, of which there seems to be more every year. Everyone Says I Love You is one of those in the middle; in some respects it is one of the stronger pieces of that period in his career (the "Miramax years", I suppose, from Bullets Over Broadway right up to Sweet And Lowdown, the best film he's made in two decades) because it pleases with much less effort than the works surrounding it, and lacks the (mostly) unwelcome cynicism that's defined so many of his films since then. Most directors in love with How Things Used To Be seem to find themselves drawn towards making a musical just for the hell of it, and Everyone Says I Love You is successful in that it keeps a quietly goofy enough tone to pull it off, a tone that helps the rest of the film get by between numbers. the story is corny and partially recycled (listening in on therapy sessions? at least wait ten years before cribbing your own plots) and Natasha Lyonne's narration, filled with affected stammers read directly from the page, consistently cripples the experience. but the here-and-there cleverness of the musical conceit (Natalie Portman's sobbing her way into an Alda-aborted "I'm Through With Love" is one of the funniest gags in the film) really does make the whole thing worthwhile, and Allen & Goldie Hawn's dance by the river gets me every time. it's not one of his best films by any measure, but it's one of the few lesser ones i don't ever mind revisiting.

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)

woody allen's CASSANDRA'S DREAM (2007)

it’s not easy being a Woody Allen fan. American cinema’s comic laureate has released a film practically every year since his 1969 debut Take The Money And Run, running the gamut between ribald gag-a-minute comedies and philosophically smothering chamber dramas as he carved out a body of work as curiously personal as it is significant. a handful of his films are among the all-time greats, and at least fifteen more aspire closely to greatness. but several others are just okay. and, to be very honest, an increasing number are damned dreadful. such is the curse of productivity.

in 2005, however, Woody’s diminishing batting average was unexpectedly bolstered with the home run that was Match Point, a sharp, wicked tale of luck and murder set across the pond from his beloved New York City. besides being better than anything he’d made in at least half a decade, the film exhibited an encouraging restlessness in Allen’s craft, and at the age of seventy he proved he could still surprise his audience. was it his newest muse, Scarlett Johansson, or perhaps the United Kingdom itself, that so inspired him? his subsequent film, the middling Scoop, suggests not. so perhaps it was the straightfaced, low-key crime drama?

the answer, for better or worse, lies in Cassandra’s Dream, Match Point’s opposing bookend in his British trilogy. the film centers around Ian and Terry Blaine (Ewan McGregor and Colin Farrell), two lower middle class South Londoners with a propensity for living beyond their means: Terry chases spurts of good and bad luck to the dog tracks and high-stakes private poker games, while Ian daydreams of hotel investments and woos a beautiful actress with optimistic lies. as the chasm between means and aspirations expands, their successful Uncle Howard (Tom Wilkinson) blows into town with a dark proposition dressed up in language of generosity and family loyalty: a former associate is preparing to testify regarding unsavory business practices, and must be dealt with. capital D, capital W.

and thus the brothers Blaine are faced with a tough decision, and its consequences reverberate through the rest of the film: one brother tries to cope with guilt and fear, the other with their absence. superficially, Cassandra’s Dream echoes Match Point in its form: Allen again plays the film straight (he stays behind the camera, for one) and pulls off another impressive exercise is style and restraint. in content, however, the film is much closer to 1989’s Crimes & Misdemeanors, an earlier masterpiece dealing with the spiritual implications of murder gone unpunished.

sadly, Cassandra’s Dream lives up to neither. one of the main problems is the characters: as with Match Point, he has little trouble bridging the cultural divide, but here the added problem of social class proves trickier; Allen has his heart set on nuance and realism, but his scripting undoes him, taking little care to disguise what amounts to a poored-down version of his typical milieu. this becomes a serious problem as the film progresses, as the story and its psychology hinge entirely on Ian and Terry’s desperation, but time and time again their plight rings untrue, and so the events in motion around them carry the weight of contrivance.

even worse, the film’s conscious echoes of Crimes & Misdemeanors end up working against it as well, if only because C&M is a much more definitive piece of work; Allen borrows against his own ideas a little too enthusiastically, and though Terry’s plight adds another dimension to the struggle, his weakness seems somehow affected and dramatically insufficient. Ian’s arc does push the story into pulpier territory than C&M dared tread, and the film is engaging throughout, but it’s hard to ignore the soft hum of a coasting filmmaker, especially by the film’s abrupt, unsatisfying finale, a small wonder of boring irony.

ah, but then, I’m only rough on Woody because I love him so. (this isn’t an uncommon affliction among Allen apologists.) Cassandra’s Dream is still in many regards an impressive 38th feature film by a onetime standup comedian, branching out confidently as it does into unfamiliar territory that proves just slightly beyond its grasp. and as much as Match Point has probably spoiled fans into hoping he’s got another ace up his sleeve, for the moment it’ll suffice to be quietly thankful that he’s still making stabs at greatness amidst a slow decline of recycled whimsy. see you next year, Woody.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)