Cafe Society (2016)

Time just seemed to run away with me yesterday which is why my regular Friday blog has managed to emerge on a Saturday morning and also why this review may well be shorter than usual -- since there are other things I usually try to do on a Saturday morning. That's the problem with being a creature of habit or wantonly seeking an orderly life.

However I could not let the opportunity pass without reviewing the latest Woody Allen movie. I've said it before and I'll say it again that despite his mounting chorus of critics, each new release manages to deepen my affection for this filmmaker. His 50th film is on the horizon and that will be an occasion well worth celebrating. The reviews for this movie have been lukewarm at best and no this is not another instance of an Allen clone attracting a much younger love interest -- thank you very much Mrs Muir. Set firmly in the l930s, the action is split between the Hollywood scene (with its many allusions to enchant any movie buff) and New York's would-be glittering night life, both beautifully designed, costumed, and photographed. The Allen film it most reminded me of is "Radio Days" (1987) but without its joy.

On so many levels this is an old man's movie full of regrets: lost love, the superficiality of existence, and the numbering of our days. Allen is now 81 years old and is allowed to wallow in rose-tinted nostalgia. as far as I'm concerned. For the second time in recent years Jesse Eisenberg is given the 'young Woody' role, but there is no attempt to mimic any mannerisms; his performance is nearly likeable and restrained. The revelation is Kristen Stewart -- miles away from her goth-y Twilight days -- playing his first love who opts for the glamour and security of her older lover, Steve Carell, a hot-shot Tinseltown agent and Eisenberg's uncle. Her performance is simple and unforced and she looks a dream in her little bobby-sox. As usual Allen rounds out his cast with a starry but well-considered ensemble: Jeannie Berlin and Ken Stott as Eisenberg's parents (but do tell me how a Scots character actor came to portray a Yiddishe failure), Carey Stoll as his gangster brother (one is so used to seeing him totally bald, so why in the world was he given the world's worst wig to wear?), Sari Lennick out of "A Serious Man" as his sister, the ever-reliable Parker Posey as a mentor, and Blake Lively as his eventual gorgeous but not deeply-loved wife.

Allen's own scene-setting voiceover is perhaps unnecessary and at times its shakiness makes him sound less like the Woody of days long past; however as always his selection of music channelling the hits of the period is spot-on and a real pleasure. I for one look forward to his next movie and the one after and so on, 'til death do us part.

Irrational Man (2015)

Anyone who has followed my blog will know by now that I am a big Woody Allen fan. Hence our trip to the cinema to see his latest, despite some very disparaging reviews. Only one, by Kevin Maher in The Times, managed to see beyond the familiar 'gorgeous young chick falls for middle-aged man' moan that greets so many of his films. Maher wrote that one shouldn't complain about the long-standing themes, but should welcome each new spin from Allen's fertile pen. His movies show up most modern releases for the childish pap they are, with their intelligent, witty dialogue, their eclectic casting, their masterful eye for location, and their thoughtful musical choices. 

Here we have Joaquin Phoenix as cult philosophy professor Abe Lucas, lecturing for the summer term at a small, prestigious Rhode Island college. To put it mildly he is a grumpy old sod, forever sipping whisky from his pocket flask, literally letting his fat gut hang out, and having lost both his sexual prowess and his lust for life. This doesn't stop indie queen Parker Posey, a married scientist at the college, doing her best to end up in his bed. One of his students is music-major Jill played by Emma Stone in her second film for Allen, leading one to wonder if she is becoming his new muse a la Diane Keaton or Scarlett Johansson. Despite her long-standing relationship with boyfriend Jamie Blackley (who he ?), Jill and Abe become good friends, and she tries to make him lighten up. Of course, being a Woody film, she soon develops strong feelings for him -- the student having a crush on a professor is far from unknown -- while he continually fends her off for a variety of reasons.

While grabbing a snack together in a diner, the pair eavesdrop on a conversation about a mean old judge who is tormenting a local woman in her custody case, largely because he has the power to do so. (Of course the Woody-haters will immediately relate this to Allen's court battle with Mia Farrow those many years ago). Abe resolves to do away with this tyrant who he feels deserves to die; as he carefully plans and carries out this existential act, he is newly energised, regaining his confidence and joie de vivre. He is now able to perform sexually with Posey (and Stone) and seems more alive than ever with new purpose. As Allen told his Cannes audience where the film premiered (to very mixed reactions), if one maintains a rational approach to life everything seems depressing; but once you start thinking that your life has meaning and that what you do matters, you begin to find happiness in your existence.

The murder is big news in the small college community and everyone, including Jill and Abe, has his own theory. However as more and more small details emerge, Jill becomes convinced that Abe is the culprit. He eventually admits the truth to her, but she becomes disenchanted and increasingly shrill. She gives him an ultimatum that he must confess to the crime 'by Monday', especially after another man is arrested and charged. However, he now realises that he really relishes his freedom and thinks he just might take off for Spain with Posey; he begins to understand that one murder can beget another. I will not spoil the movie by revealing which character finally meets its maker, but I will say that it is not necessarily the neatest end to the film and I can easily envision alternate scenarios.

I was intrigued by one of the characters in the movie, one of Jill's friends who looked like a Bette Midler mini-me. I was therefore pleased to note in the end credits that she is played by one Sophie von Haselberg (Midler's married name) and is in fact her daughter. She describes herself as an actress, but this is her first film role, apart from that of a child extra back in the 90's. Her apart, this movie is one of Allen's least starry features. Although his skills are well-thought of, I have never fancied Phoenix's performances, except possibly as Johnny Cash in "Walk the Line". Stone and Posey acquit themselves well, although both actresses are something of an acquired taste. The remainder of the cast were all adequate, but not exactly memorable. The choice of locations and the cinematography were up to Allen's usual impeccable standards, but his choice of music -- usually a mix of old classics and trad jazz -- was a little weird, heavy on the Ramsey Lewis Trio's less disciplined harmonies.

Following the film's release here, I read another article positing that creative artists should know when they are past their prime and should know when to stop -- pointing a not so veiled finger at Allen. I couldn't disagree more, since this would deprive the world of so many lost masterpieces in all areas of artistic life. This movie may not be one of Woody's best and I will admit that it could have done with a lighter touch and a leavening of humour -- the things that his script mocks are a little too subtle to create guffaws, just small smiles. It's a talky film, but one that makes you think, and I would not be surprised to find it considered one of his most underrated in the years to come. 

Magic in the Moonlight (2014)

It seems I've become something of a Woody Allen apologist. The reviews here for his latest 44th (!) movie were so universally negative, that I nearly didn't go to see it on its release. The Times' critic described lead actor Colin Firth's performance as "soggy" -- whatever that means, and nearly all the detractors tend to compare each new Allen release with earlier Allen movies, rather than with the general dross available in cinemas today.

By that rather limited viewpoint, Woody's latest is not one of his greatest (and do bear in mind that I was not particularly taken with "Blue Jasmine"), but it is sunny and breezy, manages to bring smiles to one's face in addition to the occasional laugh-out-loud chuckle, and is much more than just a pleasant way to pass some 90 minutes.  Always fascinated by magic and magicians, Allen casts Firth as heavily made-up, unrecognizable Chinese conjurer Wei Ling-Soo, a world-renowned performer in the late 20s when the film is set. He thrills audiences with his skill at making elephants disappear, sawing ladies in two, and evaporating and re-appearing himself. In his non-stage life as uptight, cold and caustic rationalist Stanley, he derives the utmost pleasure from de-bunking fake mediums. He has recently acquired a super-efficient and therefore highly suitable 'fiancee' in the form of Catherine McCormack and is supposedly happy with his rigid world view..

When an old childhood friend who has also become a professional magician albeit less successful (Simon McBurney with the most distracting comb-over ever) tells him about a sweet young thing (Emma Stone) busy plying her money-making seance act on a susceptible family on the Riviera, adding that he has been unable to discover her trickery, Stanley is tempted to go and expose the young hussy. Stone's Sophie has not only charmed rich dowager Jacki Weaver with her attempts to communicate with her late husband, but she has also enticed Weaver's ninny of a son (Hamish Linklater). He persists in serenading Sophie non-stop with his titchy little ukulele while he croons songs of the period slightly off-key; he and his Mum are preparing to fund a psychic research centre to Sophie's delight (and the greedy joy of her chaperone mother, Marcia Gay Harden in a nothing role), and he also hopes to make her his pampered wife.

Stanley is introduced into the household under a false identity by McBurney and Weaver's daughter and son-in-law who are fearful that Mum and Junior are being fleeced. From the moment he lays eyes on the wide-eyed Sophie, he attempts to pooh-pooh her supposed flashes of psychic inspiration, even when she seems remarkably prescient about his travels, love-life, and real identity. He remains unimpressed by her parlour tricks and is determined to show her up for the phony gold-digger that she is. However on a day trip with him to visit his beloved Aunt in Provence (a smashing performance from old-stager Eileen Atkins), Sophie manages to sense things about his Auntie's past relationships that she could never have known. Thus the consummate rationalist Firth must re-evaluate his long held prejudices and admit the possibilities of the soul, religious beliefs, and something inexplicable to his own hidebound views. He even calls a press conference to admit to the world that he just may have been wrong all these years. There is absolutely nothing "soggy" about his performance and the other main players are fine as well.

However when Atkins is injured in a road crash and Firth reluctantly attempts to offer up a little prayer to an unacknowledged God, he is reminded that even if his dear aunt should die, he can always communicate with her via Sophie. This knocks some sense back into his addled mind: only the skill of doctors can save his aunt and Sophie really must be some colossal fraud -- as a pedlar of illusion himself he is sure he can expose another, never dreaming initially that McBurney and Sophie might be in cahoots. Even when the truth is out and Sophie has accepted Linklater's proposal, Firth begins to understand that there is something about her which has touched him deeply and that even in the rational world there is something which can only be described as real magic. He offers his hand in marriage to save her from herself, but is rebuffed -- much to his amazement that a young lady from Kalamazoo should turn down the great full-of-himself celebrity. That's your final chance he yells after her...but we can guess the ending.

As always Allen's use of period music is brilliantly incorporated in the film and there is even a brief cameo from Ute Lemper as a café singer in Berlin (complete with grotesque Weimar figures in the foreground). The South of France photography is sumptuous as well. I feel that Woody keeps returning to his favourite period of the l920s if only to incorporate the spiffy shiny period roadsters which accompany nearly each scene; he may even have a fetish for them! As for the age difference between Firth and Stone, not that there is any mention of this in the storyline, I admit that there is something just a little bit creepy about this. However as Allen himself has admitted, he is now far too old himself to play against some of the exciting new actresses he finds, so substitute Woodys with all their inbuilt neuroses and jaded outlooks must fill in for him. Perhaps this recurrent theme is a sweet little love letter to his own much younger spouse in a marriage which has now lasted the best part of twenty years.

This is the sort of movie that one can just sit back and enjoy on its own terms, without pursuing any sort of intellectual exercise as to how it fits into the Allen canon.  Bring them on Woody!  

To Rome with Love (2012)

I've said it before and no doubt (hopefully) I'll say it many times again: I have a lot of time and a heightened degree of tolerance for Woody Allen films.  Over the last ten to twenty years, the naysayers have been proclaiming (with the exception that proves the rule, last year's "Midnight in Paris") that his latest movie is his 'worst one ever'.  I can not hope to convince the sceptics, but I know in my heart that his legion of faithful fans perseveres.

His latest film after a run of love letters to London, Barcelona, and Paris, is of course set in the Eternal City, and Allen marks the occasion by giving us beautiful panoramic views many steps above a mere travelogue and also manages to incorporate a medley of Italian musical favourites from "Volare" and "That's Amore" through grand opera.  The film is some twenty minutes longer than his average, uses a vast army of generally unknown Italian actors, and even has the audacity to present a good proportion of the flick in Italian with (horror) subtitles -- which in itself is enough to put off the Allen-knockers. While the film is certainly not amongst his very best, it is still highly entertaining and provides the requisite dose of laughs, particularly when Allen's own character is on screen. 

There are four separate story-lines, each vaguely about love in its many forms, that unexpectedly do not intertwine.  Two of these are completely in Italian and two are in English.  The main tale concerns Allen as a retired opera director who travels to Rome with his psychiatrist wife Judy Davis (never missing an opportunity to throw little digs at Allen's various neuroses) to meet the parents of the left-wing lawyer whom their beloved daughter, Alison Pill, has met, fallen in love with, and plans to marry.  They live in the apartment behind his father's mortuary -- occasioning a run of gags from Allen regarding both his fear of flying and his fear of death.  The meeting is not going too well until Allen hears the magnificent tenor of the mortician as he sings in the shower. He becomes obsessed with the idea of bringing this great talent to an appreciative audience, but when he discovers that his reluctant discovery can not sing outside this familiar setting, he stages an opera where every scene has his lead singing from a movable shower stall.  This is the same director who once staged an opera with the cast dressed as white mice! While the undertaker receives glowing reviews, impresario Allen is described as an imbecile -  which, since he speaks no Italian, he takes as a glowing compliment. While the gag may have been done before somewhere, these scenes are hilarious.

The second American story was to me the least satisfactory, although it had its moments.  Jesse Eisenberg is an architectural student living in Rome with girlfriend Greta Gerwig (a current critic's darling who normally raises my hackles, but who is fine in a subdued role here); her neurotic friend Ellen Page comes to stay and prepares to win away Eisenberg's affections with her non too subtle mix of pseudo-intellectual pretensions and make-believe sexuality.  Alec Baldwin, an older successful architect whom Eisenberg meets, initially as a real character, morphs into a fly on the wall proffering advice and admonitions to Eisenberg who has become the embodiment of his younger self.  A cute idea, but one that would have worked better if the usually likeable Page wasn't so annoying here.

The first of the two Italian story is a semi-homage to Fellini's "The White Sheik" where a provincial couple (they claim to be from Pordenone, home of a famous silent film festival) have come for their honeymoon.  He is to meet some influential cousins who will help his career prospects.  While she goes out and becomes more and more lost looking for a hairdresser, he is mistaken for a client of belle du jour Penelope Cruz, bursting out of her skimpy red dress, who has been gifted an afternoon of her attentions. In burst his relatives and he tries hopelessly to pass her off as his wife. Meanwhile his real wife has fallen in with a film crew making a movie with one of her many film idols and she is tempted into his hotel bedroom by his cajoling flattery. Both of them manage to be unfaithful to the other, in not necessarily expected ways, and decide in the end to return to their boring small-town life.

The second and possibly more successful Italian strand stars Roberto Benigni who can be one of the most annoying screen clowns of our era.  However his role here fitted him like a glove and had some piercing comments to make about the nature of celebrity.  He is your average Joe jobsworth, living a quiet life with his dowdy wife and two children.  Out of the blue and for no discernible reason, he leaves his house one day to a crowd of photographers and interviewers who seem determined to follow him everywhere and hang on his every word as something of profound wisdom.  What did he eat for breakfast? What kind of bread? Was it toasted? Does he wear boxer shorts? and so on, as if these replies would seal the fate of the world.  At first he shrinks from this unwanted attention and the glittering invitations he receives, to say nothing of the hordes of glamorous females who suddenly crave his body, but he soon takes it all for granted. Then one morning his crowd of admirers spot another nonentity in the road and switch their attentions to him. Having tasted undeserved fame, Benigni soon misses all the attention and his usually hyper personality works well in this parable on the emptiness of modern-day celebrity.

Carry on making these confections, Woody!  Long may you wave!  I know I am not alone in waiting to discover how you next will tickle our funny bone.

You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger (2010)

Rumour has it that most Hollywood 'stars' await a sometimes elusive phone call, the siren summons to appear in a Woody Allen film, much the same as they previously coveted a role in one of Robert Altman's marvelous ensemble dramas.  Despite paying well below their expected regular fees, there was always a certain cache to working with these two directors -- however uncommercial the resulting movie.  Consider the main cast in the above London-set film: Anthony Hopkins, Naomi Watts, Josh Brolin (looking rather pudgy), Antonio Banderas, Freida Pinto as well as a host of highly respected -- if not internationally starry -- British actors.  You would have every reason to expect something special. 

Now if you check back my reviews, you will find that I have always been an Allen advocate, always finding something worthwhile amongst his output even as they have become less and less fashionable.  A critical rallying cry for many of his more recent films has been "a return to form", a standard critique for nearly every other release, e.g. "Melinda and Melinda", "Vicky Christina Barcelona", "Midnight in Paris".    Whereas I have consistently enjoyed nearly all of them apart from the exception that proves the rule: "Hollywood Ending" (2002), a misfire which has just about disappeared off the earth.  However I am sorry to have to add the above film to the very short list of Allen confections which just haven't worked for me.

Despite the sparkling cast with their master-class acting, the movie is unusually cynically sour, very low on any sort of joy factor.  Gemma Jones plays wealthy Hopkins' discarded, but financially well-off wife, who finds her only comfort in the advice proffered by quack fortuneteller Pauline Collins.  He in turn is striving to recapture the virility of his youth by exercise and diet and is easily roped in by Lucy Punch's uncultured and scheming golddigger.  Their daughter Sally (Watts) is married to one-trick author Brolin who is unable to repeat the success of his first novel, forcing the couple into a hand-to-mouth existence, subsidised by Jones.  Watts works for established art gallery supremo Banderas whilst dreaming of opening her own gallery and possibly creating a spark in her boss' heart as well.  Brolin meanwhile becomes obsessed with the woman in red (Pinto) who has newly moved in across the block and works to establish a relationship with her although she is engaged to be married shortly; he also appropriates the scintillating manuscript that only he has read, written by a close friend 'killed' in a car accident, planning to pass it off as his own brilliant breakthrough.

Spoiler alert: everthing goes disastrously wrong for all of them bar Jones, as one by one their dreams are smashed.  Jones does not meet the tall, dark stranger promised by her guru, but she does meet a dumpy, widower who shares her interest in the occult and they eventually get it on once he has received approval from beyond the grave from his late wife.  Pinto breaks her engagement after falling for the soon-to-be successful Brolin who then discovers that his friend isn't in fact dead, but about to emerge from a coma.  The now separated Watts learns that Banderas isn't at all interested in her, but ready to divorce his wife for her close friend Anna Friel, and that Collins has advised Jones not to invest any money in the gallery her daughter demands.  Poor old Hopkins who sorely wants a son to replace one that he lost, soon discovers that his new bride may be pregnant but that the baby she is carrying is unlikely to be his.  He now realises what he has lost in Jones and begs her to take him back to provide the comfort he needs in his final years -- but too late, for she has found her own soulmate.  Yes, it's all about hopes and relationships, but the unusually bitter Allen seems to take pleasure here in smashing everyone's dreams into increasingly small smithereens.

This leaves the elusive, and I understand purportedly dreadful ,"Cassandra's Dream' (2007) as the only Allen movie I've not seen.  However, I have every confidence that each of his next annual releases will continue to rekindle my affections for a very long time to come.

Midnight in Paris (2011)

It is no secret that I have a soft spot for Woody Allen's movies and I was therefore heartened that his most recent film has done record box office in America -- unlike most of his output over the last many years which have at best reached respectable but not particularly startling grosses Stateside.  I will not deny that he has turned out the occasional clunker, but most of his films manage to sparkle on my moviemeter (I even liked "Jade Scorpion").  Perhaps this film's success is a growing resentment on the part of those audiences seeking grown-up entertainment in contrast to the likes of "Hangover 2".

This is Allen's second Paris-set movie and can be taken as a love letter to the City of Lights, both past and present.  It begins as a romantically filmed three minute travelogue of typical and less typical Parisian views before introducing us to Owen Wilson's lead character Gil, a jaded Hollywood scriptwriter yearning to turn out his own Great American Novel.  He is travelling with his fiancee Rachel McAdams (I prefer her as a brunette, not the shallow blonde she plays here) and her pushy, wealthy conservative parents.  After running into her friends from home, Michael Sheen -- playing a know-it-all pedantic visiting professor -- and his pretty vacant wife, who try to organise their stay in the city with a selection of cultural and 'fun' outings, Gil baulks one evening preferring to walk back to their hotel rather than 'go dancing'.  At the stroke of midnight he encounters a vintage car and its revelling occupants who whisk him into a time warp, landing him in the artistic Paris of the 1920s.  There he meets the likes of F. Scott Fitzgerald and his ditzy wife Zelda, Cole Porter, Picasso, Hemingway, T.S. Eliot, Gertrude Stein (who agrees to critique his nearly-completed novel), and other glitterati of the period.  He also meets Picasso's latest sexual conquest played by Marion Cotillard who has boasted previous liaisons with Modigliani and Braque.  Gil is growingly taken with her on his subsequent midnight rambles (none of which McAdams is prepared to believe thinking him unhinged) and is tempted to stay -- if he could -- with this new love and her remarkable circle of friends.  However one evening the pair of them end up in yet another time period the Belle Epoque of the 1890s with the likes of Lautrec, Gaughin,and Degas; Cotillard elects to remain there, suggesting that all of us are capable of looking back and prefering idealised more attractive times.

The film is well-cast, but not as full of starry names as many of the Woodster's earlier movies, with a number of lesser-known British and French players.  However among the star performances we have Kathy Bates as a less pompous and less masculine Stein, the heralded appearance of Carla Bruni (Mrs. Sarkozy) as a museum guide (a completely acceptable and attractive performance), and the lately growingly-annoying Adrien Brody in a here spot-on embodiment of Salvador 'Da-lee'.  However the movie's main strength is Wilson's winning interpretation of the previous 'Woody Allen role'.  Unlike earlier incarnations like Kenneth Branagh and Will Ferrell, Wilson is not striving for a Woody imitation, although one can almost hear Allen in his cadences, words, and obsessions (not surprising since Allen did write the script).  However he makes the role his own with his winning combination of sweet reactions and innocent wonder.

I suspect the playing of this popular actor has much to do with the movie's relative success in the US, since the movie is charming rather than laugh-out-loud funny, apart from one truly delicious joke toward the end concerning the detective that McAdam's father has hired to report on Gil's midnight wandering. Perhaps I am underestimating the tastes and intelligence of the average American audience, but I suspect that a lot of the in-jokes possibly passed way over some of their heads.  I doubt that many of the modern masses remember folk like Josephine Baker or can appreciate the sly conceit of Gil's suggesting to Dali's friend Luis Bunuel the outline of the plot of the latter's 1962 movie, "The Exterminating Angel", to that director's dismissive disbelief.  Irregardless of this intellectual oneupmanship on my part, adult audiences have obviously warmed to the gist of Allen's time-travelling fantasy and they have shown themselves to be truly grateful for this sparkling and amusing entertainment.

Serendipity

If my viewing life was not so blessed with occasional happy surprises, I doubt I would be so obsessive at viewing nearly everything that comes my way nor being as prepared to grant even the most dubious offering an even break.  While this results in my seeing a lot of dreck -- to put no finer point upon it, the occasional gem is found glittering amongst the morass.

Some of the so-called 'movie channels' on satellite television are actually nothing more than an old-folks home for aging television movies and made-for-cable films and mini-series.  Some of these are reasonably watchable, as long as one doesn't apply rigid cinema criteria, and it is always a kick to see no longer available actors, like Lee Remick or Jason Robards, in their small-screen appearances.  However, every so often, what I would term a 'real film' finds its way into the knacker's yard of these minor channels and makes me realise that I have struck gold.

Voices from a Locked Room (1995), aka Voices:  I knew absolutely nothing about this movie and must assume that while not made for television, it never received any sort of distribution in the cinema.  It is a absolutely riveting biopic of the pseudonymous, modern progressive British composer Peter Warlock -- if one ignores the fact that the story being told bears little resemblance to the realities of his own short life. The movie is set in a faithfully rendered London of 1930;  Jeremy Northam plays a respected newspaper music critic, Philip Heseltine, whose bete noir is what he considers the derivative or 'stolen' output of the reclusive, yet fashionable, composer.  It might be considered a 'spoiler' to reveal the twist, although the conclusion soon becomes apparent to the viewer, but Heseltine and Warlock are one and the same person; the protagonist's increasingly violent and irrational behaviour is the product of a bi-polar, disturbed mind.  Heseltine is a wealthy man about town, courting a talented American night-club singer -- a strong role for Tushka Bergen, while Warlock works from a Battersea slum and warns her against the hated critic. They function as two discreet, yet obviously dependent personalities, and each of them indulges in life-threatening ploys against the other.  There is some cockamamie backstory that Heseltine was traumatised as a child when his wicked stepfather set his grand piano alight -- I bet! At any rate, Northam is absolutely brilliant at playing these Jekyll and Hyde characters at war within himself.

Although the film is based on a novel, it is barely factual and a great deal of poetic license has been taken in bringing the source material to the screen.  The only fact that is inarguable is that Warlock/Heseltine died in mysterious circumstances in his gas-filled flat at the age of 34.  However the story of the self-loathing critic and the tortured genius existing in a single body has gifted Northam with an actor's tour-de-force that deserves to be rescued from its satellite graveyard.

Whatever Works (2009):  I am well aware, as I'm sure I've written previously, that Woody Allen is definitely out of fashion, and as each year's offering appears, regular as clockwork, one or two critics will write that he is back to "the old Woody". To those of us who have been faithful fans over the years -- a diminishing breed I think -- each of his movies is approached with anticipation.  Apart from his sub-Bergman period, I have more than tolerated all of his films and found some not-so-elusive charm in most of them.  The only exception I might make is for the dire "Hollywood Ending" (2002) which I saw on an airplane and which has never even had a DVD release in Britain. However, I was in no particular rush to see this one, since Larry David is just a name to me; I have never watched "Curb your Enthusiasm" on TV and have only seen the rare "Seinfeld", so any built-in attraction was missing.

Having said that, however, and remembering that David is not really a film actor, he does a splendid job of inhabiting the misanthropic character of Boris Yellnikoff, a man who considers himself a genius (he nearly won the Nobel Prize!) and most of the rest of the world as cretins. Into his life comes Southern teenaged runaway Evan Rachel Wood in a role totally at odds with the bitchy daughter she plays in HBO's "Mildred Pierce" which I am also currently watching.  Her impressionable and extremely grateful Melody is soon mouthing his sarcastic and bitter sentiments and is convinced that he is the man for her, despite the difference in their ages, backgrounds, and intellectual ammunition -- and so Beauty and the Beast marry to the astonishment of all his friends and Boris himself.

This is not one of Allen's star-packed ensembles, with only Patricia Clarkson and Ed Begley, Jr. being well-known among the supporting cast.  They play Melody's fundamentalist and prejudiced parents, who have separated, and who have each gone in pursuit of their 'missing' daughter.  Horrified when they first find her with Boris, each of them is subsequently transformed by their exposure to the Big City (I should add it is great having Woody back in New York for a change). They each discover the inner keys to the happiness which has eluded them in the past. This movie may be a little alienating at first when the main emphasis is on Boris' intolerant and selfish behaviour, but by the end sunshine and mellowness break through. We are left with an optimistic message:  grab whatever love you can find and everything will 'work'. Fortunately this message comes to us courtesy of Woody's smart and witty scripting.

Mighty Aphrodite (1995)

It's been rather a mixed bag of viewing over the last few days, but too soon after my last multiple entry to do another; it included a couple of golden oldies, a pair of poorish French flicks, the penultimate 'Romance' biting the dust, and the remnants of another uninvited series of TV 'Action Thrillers'. So it was a toss-up between the above movie and a British kiddie fantasy "The Water Horse" (2007), which had its moments, of a lonely lad raising a baby "Nessie" in the Scottish lochs during World War II. However whereas I would probably resist viewing the latter again, I think this was my third time for the Woody Allen gem.



I've written before about people droning on about the latest Allen movie either not being funny or alternatively "a return to form", but this one is something of a winner on all levels. The director has always managed to attract high-powered casts for his films, which must say something in his favour. Here we have him playing a sports writer married to Helena Bonham Carter (not particularly good chemistry there); they have the opportunity to adopt a new-born as she is far too busy with her work to consider having one of her own. The child is greatly loved by both parents, and so handsome and bright that Woody begins to wonder about how marvellous his birth parents must be. Enter porn actress and prostitute Mira Sorvino playing a tart with a heart who is not the brightest bulb in the pack. The bimbo-izing of her actual striking good looks and keen intelligence earned her a best supporting Oscar.



Woody takes it upon himself to try to reform her and find her a suitable husband, partly to insure against the time when his son seeks to find out more about his mother (the father could have been one of hundreds) and partly because of his genuine concern for another vulnerable human being. He doesn't want the offered sex as a reward, but rather begins to truly care for her future, although thicky boxer Michael Rapaport proves not to be the answer. All of this action is punctuated by a latter-day Greek chorus in Manhattan's Central Park, including the likes of F. Murray Abraham, Olympia Dukakis, and David Ogden Stiers, commenting on the action, offering some memorable funny lines, and eventually breaking into a full-fledged Broadway musical number -- a clever modern usage of an ancient dramatic device.



The script is witty, the final irony of the tale not foreseen, and a good time is guaranteed to any viewer who doesn't believe the myth of Woody's decline.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona (2008)

Let me state upfront that I am a big Woody Allen fan (there are increasingly fewer of us). It's not that I particularly love his early "funny" work nor his cod-Bergman serious stuff, but most of his post-"Manhattan" movies charm me through their zingy dialogue, amazing casts, and general air of pleasant inconsequence. The one recent exception which I saw on an airplane and which has never been released here is "Hollywood Ending" which is definitely sub-standard and I understand that "Cassandra's Dream" which I've not yet seen is pretty awful -- although I shall make my own mind up in due course.



I was therefore especially keen to view the above film which everyone said was a 'return to form', although that's been said before. Perhaps because the movie has been so hyped, I'm sorry to say that I was actually a little disappointed. It's a pleasant enough watch and Allen makes good use of the wonderful Barcelona settings and Spanish music, but it seemed to be lacking that leavening of humour which makes his films special. The story concerns two best friends from the States spending a summer in Spain, the serious level-headed one played by Rebecca Hall (who's really beginning to register with me) and the flighty ungrounded one played by Allen's new muse Scarlett Johansson. There they meet macho artist Javier Bardem -- wonderful as always but in a slightly degrading role I think -- and his fiery ex-wife played by Penelope Cruz. The latter seems to be walking away with best supporting actress awards at present, but I can't say that I thought she was all that remarkable, and would far rather see either of the actresses nominated in the category for "Doubt" walk off with the Oscar.



Anyhow to return to the Woody at hand, yes, it's an interesting enough movie and a pleasant diversion with a fine ensemble cast, but nowhere near his greatest or most memorable films.