Woody Abroad: Vicky Cristina Barcelona

David Begelman

Maybe it’s no accident that Woody Allen films like Match Point and his latest, Vicky Cristina Barcelona, are such successful ventures, whereas Scoop, a film that came between the two, was more or less a dud. Ironically, the director appeared in a major role in Scoop, but not in the other two films. The quality of Woody’s work nowadays seems immeasurably better when he puts himself behind the camera, rather than in front of it. It’s as though the Annie Hall era has been over for some time. Self-casting in roles with one-liners smacking of stand-up comedy routines may have worn thin as a continuing chapter of modern cinema.

At first blush, Vicky Cristina Barcelona seems to be just a comedy about American tourists abroad in Spain. Looks can be deceiving. It is actually a more complicated film than Match Point. The latter is about the sticky predicament of a murderer who evades justice by chance. (One of the graphic images in the film symbolizes the indeterminacy of outcome: a tennis ball teetering on the edge of a net, unsure about which way to fall).

Vicky Cristina Barcelona, a comedy of manners, dwells on the way love is loosened up in exotic circumstances. Yet there is another theme implicit in its narrative. Are novel love entanglements signs of liberation or personal imbalance? Are they manifestations of a new sexual freedom or symptoms of going haywire? And how do we tell these apart?

 In Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, there was no quandary over dramatic purpose; the unsettling aspects of love gone flukey had to be relieved and equilibrium restored. In Woody Allen’s movie, you’re never sure whether love’s confusions steer its principals in the right or wrong directions. And its characters all ask themselves the same question: “Am I where I should be, or just plain wacky?” Vicky Cristina Barcelona isn’t a comedy of errors; it’s a comedy about whether what happens in love is an error to begin with.

The plot revolves around two friends, Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) who, at the invitation of Vicky’s relative Judy Nash (Patricia Clarkson) and her husband, Mark (Kevin Dunn) are on summer vacation in Barcelona, a gorgeous, ochre-hued Spanish city. The film is graced by the lush cinematography of Javier Aguirresarobe, and there is a voice-over by a narrator (voice of Christopher Evan Welch), who describes the ongoing action throughout the course of the film. Performances of principal actors are beautifully nuanced, and at a high level of achievement—thanks to the director.  

The two women are distinguishable types. Vicky is a staid, somewhat conventional woman with academic interests. (Her attraction to Barcelona is inspired by her fascination with Catalonia, especially the works of the architect Gaudi.) Her commitments are all in place, as well as the one to her fiancé, Doug (Chris Messina). Cristina is quite different. She has just had a disappointing love relationship, is unsure of what she wants in life, and has little sense of achievement, except having recently completed a short film about—wouldn’t you guess?—love.

At a restaurant, the two eyeball an artist, Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), an attractive man they remember seeing at an art exhibition earlier that day. The three exchange glances, after which Juan Antonio approaches their table. Without the drawn-out preliminaries that would distinguish an American approach to hitting on two women, he summarily invites them to fly with him to Oviedo for a night of fun and love making. Cristina is up for what seems to her to be a novel and enticing adventure, whereas Vicky initially protests the outrageous idea. Yet they both find themselves acceding to the plan, whereupon everyone’s world starts to change, and at breakneck speed.

Vicky’s erstwhile composure is shattered after a night of lovemaking with Juan Antonio (a secret she keeps even from Cristina), while Cristina later moves in with him. Into Cristina’s world of new enthusiasms steps Maria Elena, Juan Antonio’s former wife (Penelope Cruz). Maria Elena has recently attempted suicide, and out of concern for her (or emotional enmeshment, depending on the spin you put on it) Juan Antonio brings her home to a love-nest already in place. Maria Elena’s stability seems to strengthen as she gets to realize that the attraction among the threesome is just what the doctor ordered. They all draw closer together, even sexually, as Christina’s talent as a photographer blossoms. (Woody’s ode to the relationship among love, liberation, and creativity?).

The plot continues to thicken as lovers reprise their trysts and separate again. The soufflé has risen in a stunning moment of culinary delight before flattening down to an ordinary existence.

Woody Allen admitted that Vicky Cristina Barcelona fulfilled his fantasy of becoming a European filmmaker. For some time now, he has enjoyed more popularity in Europe than at home. For one who has already gone through his Godard, Truffaut, Fellini, and Bergman phases—not to mention in this film a hint of Pedro Almodóvar—the home away from home must continue to be appealing. But in a rare moment of soul-searching, Allen also admitted that the only place he ever really wanted to be is in his bed. Considering this filmmaker’s prodigious output, not likely.

   

   

    

       

 

 

At the Movies

With David Begelman

Citizen News Film Critic

“To Rome with Love:” Woody Worsening

Woody Allen’s new film “To Rome with Love” is among several recent ones that fall short of an intended cinematic aim. In this case, it’s obscure what that aim actually is. The film seems to get lost in diverging rivulets of narrative intent.

The movie is another chapter in the director’s effort to underscore his fascination with European cities—in this case, Rome. In “Vicki Christina Barcelona” it was Barcelona, Spain, while in “Midnight in Paris” it was the capital of France reworked through a time-warp.

Difference is not confined solely to geography in the Allen oeuvre. Woody’s also influenced by the work of other authors and movie-makers. The impact of Ingmar Bergman is obvious in his 1952 “A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy,” Tolstoy in his 1976 “Love and Death,” Dostoyevsky in the 1989 “Crimes and Misdemeanors,” Pedro Almodóvar in the 2008 “Vicki Christina Barcelona,” and German expressionist directors, like Lang, Pabst and Murnau in his 1991 “Shadows and Fog.”

“To Rome With Love” is instructive in showing how the director’s creative vision can be compromised. Every Woody Allen movie depends upon three separate elements. First, there is the quip, gag line, or hilarious comment of which Woody is an acknowledged master.

Second, there is the knack for creating the comic situation. “To Rome With Love” is bulging with them, as are most of Woody’s films. An example in this film is Leopoldo (Roberto Benigni) who suddenly becomes a celebrity for no apparent reason. He is hounded relentlessly by paparazzi and T.V. hosts who magnify the importance of the most trivial features of his behavior, including shaving. (The humor in this is a riff on the silliness of celebrity status.)

Another example is Giancarlo (Fabio Armiliato), a mortician who is discovered to have a thrilling lyric tenor voice that becomes even more professional in the shower. His reputation is assured when the mountain is brought to Mohammed and he sings Pagliacci at an opera stage outfitted with a shower.

The third element is the inclusion of the first two elements in a narrative that is consistent. Here is where “To Rome With Love” breaks down—irretrievably. It’s in stark contrast to “Match Point” or “Vicki Christina Barcelona” in which the director had no acting role. Curiously enough, he cast himself in ”To Rome with Love,” as he did in the flop “Scoop.” Could it be that the price Allen pays for being a fall guy for the first two elements—an inevitable consequence of casting himself in a film—is crippling a narrative by succumbing to the enticements of being a stand-up comedian? Could it be that the “Annie Hall” days are over, and that Woody’s narrative proficiency is enhanced when he’s behind the camera, rather than appropriating major roles for himself?

There is another feature of Woody Allen films that comes through loud and clear. It’s his preoccupation with the mystery of love. He’s constantly seeking to understand a character in the throes of a sudden passion, change of heart or reversal of erotic feeling. If the cinematic scenario parallels a personal one, Woody should join the crowd. Most of us find ourselves in similar predicaments at points in our lives. Except for most of us, the mystery isn’t elevated to the status of a metaphysical imponderable. We get on with it—in whatever way that makes it possible to survive. It’s not important that the bee explain why he chooses one fragrant flower over another. Only that he stay on the task of whatever he has to do to shore up the hive. Reality is forward motion, not contemplating navels.