Woody Allen’s latest film is certainly an improvement on his last three offerings — Match Point, Scoop (never released in Britain except by DVD pirates) and Cassandra’s Dream.
Unfortunately, however, it would have taken a perverse genius to make a worse film than his made-in-Britain trio. Whatever its deficiencies, Vicky Cristina Barcelona marks a partial, but still welcome, return to form since it is, at least, watchable. But despite the hype surrounding the movie — fuelled by an Oscar nomination for Penelope Cruz as best supporting actress — any comparisons with Allen in his now-distant prime are best avoided.
Allen’s screenplay has American friends Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) staying with friends in Barcelona for the summer.
Vicky, engaged to fellow American Doug (Chris Messina), is researching for her Masters in Catalan culture; Cristina is seeking emotional balm after her last break-up. They meet the determinedly bohemian painter Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem) who, having divorced fiery Maria (Cruz) after she tries to kill him, is on the sexual prowl again. Vicky has a guilt-ridden one-night-stand with him, and Cristina embarks on an affair which turns into a ménage a trois when Maria returns to live with Bardem following a failed suicide attempt.
On the credit side, Allen and his cinematographer Javier Aguirresarobe decorate the drama with evocative tourist-eye views of Barcelona that would beautifully grace any travelogue but, in my view, simply serve to underline the dramatic doubtfulness of much of what happens in front of them.
The experiences of the four protagonists are watchable, but compared with Allen’s great films, their shifting relationships (Allen stages a three-in-a-bed sequence which, unexpectedly, merits only a 12A certificate, and also features a passionate lesbian kiss between Cristina and Maria) are mostly predictable and, at times, clichéd.
While Bardem’s performance is structured and credible, his character as written and directed is very much the familiar amoral, hormone-driven Latin Lover.
Cruz deserves her Academy Award nomination for a powerful portrayal but there is something operatic — even Carmen-like — in the character. Which leaves Hall and Johansson. Hall makes the most of her stereotype, vividly illuminating Vicky’s unhappiness at having to marry the devoted Doug.
Johansson, making her third film with Allen, looks lovely but succeeds only in creating a decorative but barely skin-deep character.
Part of the problem lies with Allen’s screenplay. He appears to have realised it is not as strong as it could be, since he leans far too much on narration to try to fill in the frequent gaps in the actions, reactions and motivations of his characters as well as in the plot itself.
Missing, too, is Allen’s lauded flair for humour. Vicky Cristina Barcelona might be filed under the heading “Woody’s Serious Movies”, but compared to, say, Husband and Wives and Interiors, it is off-puttingly po-faced.
Allen himself has recently made two observations about his filmmaking. “If you’re not failing every now and again, it’s a sign you’re not doing anything very innovative,” he has said, while also noting: “If my film makes one more person feel miserable, I’ll feel like I’ve done my job.”
Innovation cannot be said to be high among this film’s qualities, and anyone expecting another Annie Hall or Purple Rose of Cairo will be left feeling an emotion quite close to misery.
