It's been ages since Woody Allen made a decent movie. Small Time Crooks, Match Point, The Curse of the Jade Scorpion, Cassandra's Dream and this one: all of them terribly clichéd, hollow and with a total lack of movie-making skills.
Take this one: an annoying voice-over, which does nothing more than literally describing each and every scene ("They go to a restaurant, have some wine and talk") sets the tone. The acting too isn't terribly engaging with Rebecca Hall more irritating than sexy, Scarlett Johansson terribly under-used and the usually fine Patricia Clarkson in the typical Diane Keatonish role of the kind of woman you rather not want to get into a conversation with. Only Penelope Cruz is decent, but has such a small and confusing part that one can't really understand why she won prizes for this.
And the story? You tell me. Two American female tourists get caught up in a complex relationship between a Spanish painter and his ex-wife. Could be interesting, but the result is not. This is all presented in typical Woody-fashion: all talk and nearly no play. But if you expected any insights, a slight bit of entertainment or something else than the usual clichés about Spain and his inhabitants: look further.
Can we make a deal that from now on Woody Allen gets the treatment other directors who make this hollow, borderline amateurish and self-indulgent fare get? Time for some retirement, mister Allen.
Take this one: an annoying voice-over, which does nothing more than literally describing each and every scene ("They go to a restaurant, have some wine and talk") sets the tone. The acting too isn't terribly engaging with Rebecca Hall more irritating than sexy, Scarlett Johansson terribly under-used and the usually fine Patricia Clarkson in the typical Diane Keatonish role of the kind of woman you rather not want to get into a conversation with. Only Penelope Cruz is decent, but has such a small and confusing part that one can't really understand why she won prizes for this.
And the story? You tell me. Two American female tourists get caught up in a complex relationship between a Spanish painter and his ex-wife. Could be interesting, but the result is not. This is all presented in typical Woody-fashion: all talk and nearly no play. But if you expected any insights, a slight bit of entertainment or something else than the usual clichés about Spain and his inhabitants: look further.
Can we make a deal that from now on Woody Allen gets the treatment other directors who make this hollow, borderline amateurish and self-indulgent fare get? Time for some retirement, mister Allen.