Like Robin William’s out-of-focus actor in Deconstructing Harry, it’s often hard to really see any new Woody Allen film clearly.
For some, the director is a creepy old relic who shot his load in the seventies and eighties, then slept with his not-quite-technically underage not-quite-technically stepdaughter and keeps churning out ever-more-terrible movies to suck whatever money he still can from the wallets of the aging bourgeoisie pseudo-intellectuals willing to pay for his particular brand of nostalgic, non-threatening real estate porn. For others, the Soon-Yi controversy wasn’t as much of a deal-breaker as the sight of Allen snogging comely young co-stars who (to paraphrase Wooderson from Dazed and Confused) kept staying the same age while he kept getting older. Some just never dug his insular, overeducated, upper-class shtick in the first place. And even for die-hard fans, it’s hard not to greet each new Allen film like each new Prince album, hoping against hope that somehow this time it’ll be Purple Rain again, only to be disappointed when it's not (and wondering vaguely why he can’t just save up all his remaining talent for one last masterpiece rather than cranking out so much sub par material).
Like Jacob Marley’s chains, personal and cultural baggage come pre-tangled with Allen’s projects, making it difficult for critics and viewers not to greet them with preconceived notions...and the director’s ritualistic obsession with certain recurring themes, cadences, soundtrack palettes, filmmaking tropes and opening title designs can inspire (usually unfavorable) comparisons between what you’re watching and better earlier work.
So let’s pretend instead for a moment that Vicky Cristina Barcelona was directed by Andrew Bujalski or Joe Swanberg or Jay Duplass or one of those other low blood pressure mumblecore guys, upgrading one of their typically meandering, fitfully amusing Petri dishes of human behavior with better production values, bigger stars and a tighter script. Though trading on certain shopworn but reliable stereotypes about bloodless American yuppies and passionate Spanish artistas, you’d probably find Buswanplass' latest offering a pleasant diversion, a well-paced travelogue of gorgeous locations and philosophical landscapes, from Oviedo and Passeig de Gracia to Rebecca Hall’s Type A realist Vicky and Scarlett Johansson’s fickle, restless Cristina, a spoiled wannabe bohemian who can only define her life in terms of what she doesn’t want. Over the course of the story, Buswanplass demonstrates how the seemingly opposite personalities of American friends Vicky and Cristina ultimately lead to similar frustrations with life and love. But Javier Bardem and (especially) Penelope Cruz are the real stars of the movie, and the best thing about it. Their chemistry as incompatible soul mates is a grown-up refraction of the Vicky/Cristina dynamic, with Bardem cool and sexy as the “reasonable” one and Cruz a total hoot as the hot-blooded free spirit he loves and loathes (and vice-versa).
Do you really need another meandering romantic roundelay sprinkled with New Yorker one-liners, flavored with hints of another director (in this case, Almodovar) and a score free of rock, pop or hip-hop? Well, no, probably not. But as empty summer calories go, Vicky Cristina Barcelona’s probably healthier than another helping of CGI fast-food, and goes down easy like sangria on a long summer weekend.
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