Vicky Cristina Barcelona


I did it again, getting suckered into seeing a Woody Allen dud!

Jerry Lewis had France, and until recently Allen Spain, adoring him. But to their credit Spanish critics did not fall for the crass pandering to their own clichés and stereo-types financed by Catalan tourism budgets: this movie was unanimously panned not just in Spain but in Europe generally, with only US critics this time lining up obediently behind their guy, ostensibly for having treated him rather harshly in the past, be this for good reason.

But what a shame, besides becoming ridiculous this little man seems suddenly to be sliding down to levels of outright amateurism. I hope this is not the onset of senility, but I fear the worst. And ladies, let me tell you straight off, this is yet another Allan movie whereby a seriously slippery smartass, even ugly as sin, can manipulate several otherwise intelligent and always beautiful women into doing as he wishes, at any time. They just flop down and fold open, the sad sack but really maniacal victor having the gall of asking how he was and expecting a medal for his selfish lust. Of course we all know what that makes women, in this pathetic and insecure mind. The only thing we’re delivered of is Allen playing himself, the way he was want to, year after year, flick after self-absorbed, neurotic and tiresome flick, only occasionally truly funny.

And with Vicky Cristina Barcelona’s celebration a whole industry going to pot, enough at least for one to become very cynical about the circular, odious way crap like this gets whipped up to become some fictitious gourmet dinner: the oohs of it, the ahs of it, like infomercials, everyone scratching the other’s back, a place where certain fleas and scabs do mass. For it’s baffling to see this feature film feasted on talk shows, dubiously given awards and made the subject of laudatory reviews even cornier than this piece of laughable, not comical, cinematographic romance itself. A work ‘critically acclaimed’ while not yet released, by people with some sort of incentive to do so. A film replete with multi-millionaire pads, elegant art galleries, rich poets, sports cars, 5 star resorts, artist painters typically holding a commercial pilot’s license and owning a private aircraft, plus castles, guitars, concert pianists and everything explained, signaled ahead, spelled out for the stupid. All glossy, sentimental crap but spiked with stale ‘wit’, you see, and instantaneous Psychology 1.01 analysis. Though the audience I shared this unforgettable evening with, bless them, did constantly burst out in loud laughter for the ‘wrong’ reason and in the ‘wrong’ places, so unbelievably derisory a story, with sequences like Javier Bardém, the lead actor trying to bed our ‘serious’ heroine, Rebecca Hall, uttering the astonishingly original come on

Doo dyou like leestening to the eSpanees guitar?

(breathless) Yes, I love Spanish music!

Instantly followed by, surprise, surprise, on command, a eSpanees courtyard, and, yes, yes, a Spanish guitarist, playing Spanish music on, incredibly, a….Spanish guitar below passionate or were they gooey eyes?

As with (constant, annoying voice over) When the owner of the fruit store turned away for a second to take a telephone call, (whatever his name was) touched her hand.

This is shocking, the audacity of the mere brushing of the hand of a woman a guy already knows, in a small supermarket while the owner is momentarily turned away to take a telephone call, pre-announced, and then again all happening before our very eyes. Too much! This after having been shown her walking round town with the same dude, enjoying several lunches, naturally following intensive Catalán language and history courses together, with her reacting

What gave you the impression that you can touch my hand. Does my vulnerability show that much…I’m a married woman you know… (or whatever)…blah, blah, blah

Of course this is the stuff of intense, sudden supermarket drama, its owner momentarily distracted by taking that damned phone call. I once scratched my nose in fruit store while its owner was momentarily distracted by a phone call. It was horrible, horrible. I felt so dirty. And guilty, at the same time. Must be my vulnerability, which didn’t show, because I was alone at the time.

So does this Harlequin-cum-travelogue continue: future husband arriving from New York with empty suitcases apparently, lifted with incredible ease and in itself a joke, with more shots of balconies, theme parks, facades, constant Gàudi, Dali, Picasso, Miró and other Barcelona references, than one can shake a stick at.

But behold, besides cornball statement upon cornball take, how could we forget the hirsute Penélope Cruz and her timeless performance of an ex-wife, fellow-painter and of course classical piano genius, constantly tossing her hair mainly because it’s all she has got, while displaying the emotional depth of a flat Paella casserole. Again superbly unconvincing, miscast, and cutely showing us the almost palpable suffering of a woman who attempted suicide a day ago, was hospitalized, but quickly came along to the picnic, cracking all the carefree, shallow jokes she could think of, the way most of us do after trying to finish our life in deep, clinical despair.

And there’s no point bringing up Scarlett Johansson, poor thing having a dismissible character to play, and doing so in equally dismissible fashion.

I know, light-hearted ‘romantic’ comedies cannot be taken seriously, but why is that this one is and that there exist very, very good ones, but this unfunny one definitely not one of them? Because there are standards, aren’t there? Somewhere! Yes, we do know these too exist, but where can they be found? Not here, that’s for sure, a terrible, self-indulgent script, let me assure you!

I walked away from the show after an hour and twenty minutes, figuring that a movie that hadn’t delivered anything after 80 minutes wasn’t worth spending the last 16 minutes on. And I wasn’t the first person to leave, there were others having better things to do with their evening. So save your money, this is crisis time and you deserve entertainment and escape, not aggravation and daylight robbery during night time.

Possibly Related Classroom Projects From DonorsChoose.org Powered by Social Actions

Information and Links

Join the fray by commenting, tracking what others have to say, or linking to it from your blog.

Information
February 12th, 2009
Comments
Feeds and Links
Comment Feed
From This Author
Del.icio.us
Digg
Technorati
Categories
Film

Other Posts
Standing Athwart The Film Projector, Crying “Stop!”
Science and Poetry

Readers

Shop newcritics

Featured books:


Viewing 27 Comments

 

Trackbacks

(Trackback URL)

close Reblog this comment
Powered by Disqus · Learn more
blog comments powered by Disqus