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| Director Woody Allen |
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| director on the set |
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| Scarlett Johansson with Woody |
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| Rebecca Hall with Woody |
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| Bardem and Cruz with Woody |
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| Woody on the set |
VICKY CRISTINA BARCELONA B+ Spain (96
mi) 2008
d: Woody Allen
Preserving the template of previous Woody Allen movies, it
is no secret that Woody can steal from the best of them, including himself (!),
as this attempts to resurrect the romantic comedy magic of Annie Hall
(1977). Using a breezy energy that
respects the pulse of its players, it’s actually the first French film Woody
Allen has always wanted to make filling the screen with sensuous but superficial
characters that have intimate revelations and near inexhaustible bank accounts. Re-interpreting Alfonso Cuarón’s Y
Tu Mamá También (2001) and updating Éric Rohmer, we have an idyllic portrait
of summer bliss in Barcelona as experienced by two American tourists, Scarlett
Johansson as Cristina and Rebecca Hall as Vicky. Having the good fortune to know someone with
a palatial estate there (who turns out to be Patricia Clarkson) who is in the
middle of her own midlife doldrums, the girls are surrounded by luxury and the
bloom of youth. Vicky is engaged to Doug
(Chris Messina) back in the states, a well-meaning but emptyheaded corporate
attorney with an eye on living a comfortable life of stability, wealth and
status, where their future together has been mapped out well ahead of time
before they ever get married. Vicky’s
life is one of order and structure, where the thought of acting on impulse is
simply unthinkable, while Cristina is just the opposite, an utterly
unpredictable, dreamy-eyed girl who hasn’t a clue what she wants, who’ll jump
into troubling relationships just for the thrill of danger and suspense, but
then bale once she feels the least bit pressured. All this is explained to us through a
narrator (Christopher Evan Welch) in a snide and sarcastic tone of
understatement who seems to relish the idea of telling it to us straight,
leaving the humor and hysterics to the drama queens onscreen. Almost immediately, the characters play to
stereotype, as if the game is poking fun of themselves by floundering in scenes
that are as broadly familiarized as possible, with odd little plot tweaks where
they must remain in character. Javier
Bardem is spot on as the earnest Latin heart throb Juan Antonio, a bohemian
painter who attempts to pick up the two American girls by whisking them to a
remote weekend location in Oviedo where they can see a more intimate side of
the country and each other. Vicky, of
course, is furious at the mere suggestion while Cristina is enamored with his
charms instantly.
Woody Allen has been writing his own films for so long that
as we hear each new line of dialogue, we can literally place them in other
character’s mouths from earlier films, for instance, Vicky very much resembles
Diane Keaton in Annie Hall,
with her pretensions to art and intellect while remaining aloof to romantic
inclinations. Cristina on the other hand
sounds at times like the hesitating voice of Woody himself, neurotic and
likeable enough to others, but never satisfied, a girl who appreciates the
artistic aspirations of others but has no real talent for it herself. In this film, Juan Antonio plies the girls
with music and alcohol and lures them into the beauty of art before attempting
to seduce them both, preferably at the same time. Shot by Javier Aguirresarobe, the
cinematographer for Pedro Almodóvar’s TALK TO HER (2002), continually
saturating the screen with works of art by Gaudi and Miro and an incessant classical
Spanish guitar soundtrack that strangely repeats itself to the rhythm of the
film with refrains from a dramatically hushed version of a song called “Barcelona”
by Giulia y Los Tellarini, Giulia
y los Tellarini - Barcellona "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" - YouTube
(2:23), the film is also bathed in golden pastoral hues as the two girls and a
guy venture through a series of idyllic rural locations, permeated by a warm
summer glow enhanced by the everflowing glasses of Spanish wine. This kind of upper class milieu has been
fertile Woody Allen territory for years, but never punctuated by the rambling
pastoral landscapes more typically found in Éric Rohmer romances. However in Rohmer films, the earthy
characters are reflective of the region and emblematic of the pastoral French soil,
but here the common theme is American superficiality on display with an
overblown appraisal of themselves, usually expressed through a misguided notion
that money and class status buys happiness along with the accompanying snooty
superiority, always taking themselves much too seriously with little or no
understanding of others, such as Cristina’s reluctance to converse with Juan
Antonio’s father, who only speaks Spanish.
Enter Penélope Cruz as Bardem’s ex-wife, whose exaggerated hysterics
are priceless, causing Bardem to repeat to her at least twenty times in the
film to please “Speak English,” as she continually rants in Spanish and has for
years had a resolute refusal to speak English.
Her notion of being a drama queen is put to the test in this movie as
under Allen’s direction her hilarity is her utter caricature of herself, yet
she steals the film. Scarlett
Johansson’s acting career has suffered under Allen’s direction, as she appears
gorgeously appealing but so out of place and emptyheaded all the time, a
confused American who brings with her the baggage of immaturity and bad
acting. The screenplay attempts to
grapple with this obvious oversight by attributing artistic skills and
abilities to her character that are too preposterous to believe, as the
audience continues to see her as that glamor girl on the cover of People magazine. She is simply out acted in every scene, but
since the theme of caricature runs throughout, she seems to be playing a bad
version of herself, but somehow the brooding, self-centered pretentiousness of
it all actually works here as it typifies the theme of American superficiality. Rebecca Hall on the other hand is impressive
and a constant delight, especially her earlier scenes where she sternly and
appropriately fends off Juan Antonio with an indignant aplomb. When she falls under his spell, however, her
dizzying mood swings questioning what she really wants out of life are equally
appealing, even as they are subjugated by the less than believable storyline. Her husband Doug? He’s like a dull, grown up yet stupefyingly
successful version of a now subservient and completely ass-wiping Ferris
Bueller. What’s there to think
about? The emphasis isn’t really on
explicit bedroom scenes or in providing laughs, but instead finds a beautiful
rhythm that delves into an intricate examination of the complex nature of
relationships. But of course, everything
begins and ends with the virtues and values found only in America. This Mediterranean fling only makes sense
under the intoxicating summer swoon of reverie and make believe.
