When you grow up being called a faggot by farm boys because you like to read books, Woody Allen can appear as something of a savior. That’s my story, anyway. Allen’s early films with their broad appeal mean that even small town video rental stores are obliged to carry his work, shelving Interiors beside Bananas in the comedy section. 
The other night I finally slipped in a months-old Netflix copy of Vicky Cristina Barcelona, the story of two American beauties abroad. Within the first twenty minutes I resisted the film, thinking I am not in the mood to watch a movie about people who don’t have to worry about paying bills. Perhaps it’s my persistent shame at being relatively untraveled, but I wasn’t all that compelled to follow the romantic intrigues of people who float through Europe on the wings of their charmed life. The characters who do have jobs in these film are shallow, khaki-wearing business schmucks, men ever cognizant of one another’s golf handicaps and bewildered by abstract art. Javier Bardem appears as a chunk of confident sexuality, an artist–of course–whose seduction of Scarlett Johansson’s and Rebecca Hall’s title characters cuts right to the subtext of romantic comedies in general. We just want the characters to get it on.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona rubbed me the wrong way, I guess. I wasn’t in the frame of mind to accept escapist entertainment on its own terms, which is unusual for me. After all, recently I’ve been perfectly willing to accept the snappy breeziness of Preston Sturges.
I suppose I expect a lot from Woody Allen, while recognizing it’s his prerogative to make a light, enjoyable comedy. It was Allen’s films that suggested to me that the life of the mind might be something a kid like me could aspire to, and Allen’s bespectacled and frizzy-haired presence at the center of those early comedies was a balm to my adolescent anxieties. The post-coital chatter of those films was titilating in a way that a sex scene never could be, implying that by sheer force of wit and intelligence a physically inadequate guy could get a woman to fall in love with him. That’s heady stuff when you’re 14 years old and have never made a basket in a basketball game.
Even in the films in which Allen’s presence isn’t in front of the camera, he tends to make an appearance anyway, as with Kenneth Branagh’s channeling of Allen’s neurotic tics in 1998’s Celebrity can attest. My guess is, based on Match Point and now Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Allen just isn’t interested in directing proxies of himself right now. (I have yet to see the new film with what’s-his-name from that one show, uh, Larry David, who looks like a Woody proxy if there ever was one.) Which is wonderful and opens up a whole new period for his genius. I wonder, though, if the result of this approach is that these films feel more like a product of Allen’s head than his heart.
11 responses
Well done. I may now understand why I’ve been unable to enjoy some of his later films. Thanks.
I thought the Rumpus editors “care about good writing.” How did they let this steaming pile appear under the guise of criticism or review?
The opening lines are by Holden Caulfield — not Salinger, Caulfield if he were real and a writer and had bumped into the unfortunate Rumpus. Yes yes, you too judged others based on their appreciation of Woody Allen. Let’s explore that for two paragraphs without any detail that makes your story rise above millions of identical odes to Allen.
Now tell us how much more privileged the characters are than you. Oh dear, this isn’t a movie about the struggle of the working class? How could you have known? How could you have possibly predicted the subject of “Vicky Christina Barcelona” without any warning but the trailer, the reviews, the word of mouth, the description on Netflix, and the title? (By the way, how often does a Woody Allen lead worry about paying the bills?)
Oh, you expect a lot of Woody Allen? That’s refreshing, because most people see him as an opportunity to switch off their brains for some mind-numbing action adventure. But you are the first person to put him on a pedestal!
It’s “titillating.” Two l’s.
You haven’t seen “Whatever Works” yet? Now this whole piece makes sense. I thought your slowness to see “VCB” must be a fluke for such a die-hard Allen fan. But you haven’t seen his next film either, nor have you done the ten seconds of research to look up Larry David’s show. Oh I know, you’re just being clever about not remembering the name of “Curb Your Enthusiasm,” right? It’s just a very odd way to be clever, especially right before a line as stupid as your completely inaccurate comment about Allen’s career (“Allen just isn’t interested in directing proxies of himself right now”) based on your ignorance of “Whatever Works.”
Mr. Boudinot, I found a way you could save twenty bucks a month on bills. Drop your Netflix account and never write about a movie again.
I’d like to quickly address what Nick Douglas had to say.
In defense of the column–this entry in particular–my reading yielded a bit of a different perspective. I think, when going into a movie, sometimes our individual frames of reference have a tendency to intercede. Mr. Boudinot’s first thoughts may have been about the untethered wealth of Allen’s characters (and, going further, I think many people–myself included–have a tendency to think about this during movie viewings, especially in the midst of a recession.) So maybe Nick is a bit too quick to judge this as something Boudinot deliberately does to share with readers his financial status.
You, Nick Douglas, begin one paragraph of your comment with “Oh, you expect a lot of Woody Allen?” and state your point sarcastically that many people enjoy Woody Allen’s films, and that claiming so in a film review isn’t particularly illuminating, or original. But that doesn’t mean it’s not merited, and it doesn’t mean the way Mr. Boudinot has set it down isn’t noteworthy.
With that sort of device and standard for your criticism, I’m afraid there may not be a lot of writing you enjoy.
That’s a fair-seeming defense, Jared, but I don’t think it works. Boudinot’s unoriginal setup, “I expect a lot of Woody Allen,” is simply a bad way to start a review. It’s not an interesting starting point for judging a work, because it promises no unique perspective. (You say his comment may be noteworthy — give me some evidence.)
Boudinot doesn’t even use his little comment to support a cohesive argument; his expectations have little to do with the criticism that follow. In fact, he contradicts his own desires. As a youth, he enjoyed the world that Allen’s films promised for his later self. As an adult, he’s bitter at this same world for requiring more financial security than he’s attained.
I’m sorry, but Allen hasn’t gotten any more removed from reality (in “VCB” anyway; “Whatever Works” is a complete failure and self-parody, and I’m baffled as to how Allen could have written such contradictory, poorly plotted garbage full of flat and stupid characters so close to creating “Manhattan” and “Annie Hall,” and hell, I should probably pitch the editors of the Rumpus on a full essay about this). Boudinot has simply lost his ability to hope for the financially comfortable artistic life of Allen’s movies. If he actually recognizes and addresses his own relationship with Allen’s work, he’ll possibly have a good critical response to write. Instead he offers reflections attainable by any common filmgoer, which, given his dull style and lack of direction, leaves us empty.
Whew. Sorry, I’m sure Boudinot has written many excellent things, and I rarely write petty critiques longer than the original work, but sometimes it’s a satisfying exercise, albeit at Boudinot’s expense.
Hey Nick,
Whatever, dude. And you TOTALLY nailed me on the spelling of “titillating.” OUCH!
Love,
Ryan
That Nick Douglas sure is a smug prick.
You lament being hassled by anti-intellectual farm boys, but your rebuttal to Nick is “Whatever, dude.”?
Going to have to side with Nick on this one then.
Anon, I couldn’t agree with you more.
Touché?
More like douche, Mr. Douglas.
How about changing your habit of “rarely” writing what you yourself admit was one of your “petty critiques” to never writing them?
Just linked to this from the Mark Maron radio interview. I was similarly poised to hate VCB as well, especially because all of Allen’s character talk just like Woody Allen. But this movie was saved by Penelope Cruz. She is such a wild card in the movie, a technicolor seductress amid black-n-white cutouts. In truth, I never appreciated Ms. Cruz’s contributions to the cinema until this movie came out.
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