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November 24, 2009
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Home > Movies > Reviews > 2008 |  
Vicky Cristina Barcelona
| posted 8/01/2008



Penelope Cruz as Maria Elena
Penelope Cruz as Maria Elena

This attractive cast frolics against the romantic Barcelona backdrop, providing opportunities for eyefuls of Gaudi architecture and earfuls of exquisite Spanish guitar. Yes, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is one of the most aesthetically pleasing confections from Allen's oven.

But there's poison in the cake beneath such dazzling frosting. Marriages are made to seem boring and bland, while affairs are painted as vivid and delicious. Allen is at his most shamelessly manipulative in his portrayal of Vicky's fiancé Doug, who is annoyingly chatty about investments and real estate, with nothing resembling personality or passion. Comparing Doug to Juan Antonio is like comparing a slice of Wonder bread to a slice of fresh-baked rosemary-olive soaked in olive oil. Doug's character is the type of storyteller's cheat that Allen employs again and again—a dislikable figure whose sole purpose is to make us hope that a beautiful woman will be "saved" from marriage by a fling or an affair. Many will happily sympathize with Vicky as she reluctantly slips into the claws of the seducer. Like Madame Marie de Tourvel in Dangerous Liaisons, it's seemingly beyond her control to resist.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona is being praised by some critics as an erotic delight; one described it as "a funny, bright, and witty meditation on love, in all its romantic and sexual exhilarations and heartache, in all its intriguingly elusive and inherently mysterious nature."

Nonsense.

Woody Allen (right) seems to have adopted a love for the lurid in recent years
Woody Allen (right) seems to have adopted a love for the lurid in recent years

Erotic? Our dismay over the destructive and self-destructive behavior of these characters should overpower any enjoyment of their antics. "A bright meditation on love?" What love? Where is the care, the compassion, the selflessness that love requires? For all of their faux sophistication, these men and women are merely slaves to their hormones.

Let's give credit where credit is due: It's easy to appreciate the movie's wit, wordplay, cinematography, and performances. Rebecca Hall is quite a discovery; she may well become a remarkable leading lady in the future. And some viewers may find some needles of wisdom—as in just-say-no—in this haystack of hot-and-heavy hedonism.

But it's a shame to watch what's happening to Scarlett Johansson, who once stood out from a crowd of young actresses for her air of intelligence (Ghost World, Lost in Translation). More and more, in films like The Island, Match Point, and the upcoming Frank Miller comic book flick The Spirit, she seems happy to embody the fantasies of sophomoric, sex-obsessed males. Who will come to her rescue?

And it's an even greater shame to watch Woody Allen fall farther and farther from attaining any insights about faith or true love. In the best movies of his past—Sleeper, Hannah and Her Sisters, Zelig, Annie Hall, The Purple Rose of Cairo, and Bullets Over Broadway are standouts—romantic idiots fumbled their way from folly into occasions of almost accidental insight. His seducer-devils and troublemakers have occasionally come away from their conquests and mistakes haunted by conscience (Crimes and Misdemeanors and Match Point). And once in a while, he's aspired to the kind of substance so often achieved by his hero, Ingmar Bergman, raising significant questions about faith, sin, and consequences.

But there are no moments of theological inquiry here, save for a moment when Antonio hails a beautiful crucifix as his "favorite" work of art—but that's more of a pickup line than a provocation for spiritual reflection. And his characters seem untroubled by conscience, bothered only by dissatisfaction.

As he broadens his geographical interests beyond Manhattan, Allen's understanding of love seems to be narrowing. His work should be taking him deeper into complex and revealing stories about the heart. Instead, he's becoming more and more preoccupied with the lurid and the lewd. In the end, like Cristina, he comes away knowing only what he doesn't want, never managing even a glimpse of what he, his characters, or his audience, really need.




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