We give our most revered filmmakers such latitude, don’t we? Something drives me to each new Woody Allen film, despite the enjoyment ratio now being pitifully low. The last one of merit, and even then only for its clever, postmodern rendering, was 2004′s Melinda and Melinda. So what brought me to Vicky Cristina Barcelona? Perhaps the stellar cast, perhaps the Barcelona setting, perhaps reviews hinting, as they usually do, at a resurgence in Woody Allen’s writing . . . whatever it was, I regret it now.
The storyline is banal and offered without any saving slyness: two young American women, serious Vicky and sensuous Cristina, come to Barcelona and attract the attention of suave painter Juan Antonio, who has broken up with tempestuous Maria Elena. If my adjectives and the very names of the characters reek of cliche, well, that’s exactly how they’re presented. I groaned at the plot turns that recycled every homily about love and lust and ‘the heart versus the head.’ Javier Bardem is unbelievably oily and non-credible as Juan Antonio, Scarlet Johansson continues her decline with a wooden performance as Cristina, and Penélope Cruz makes a mockery of her role as Maria Elena. The only saving grace in the entire movie is a nuanced portrayal of Vicki by Rebecca Hall.
If flaccid acting, an inconsequential script, and plodding direction aren’t enough to consign Vicky Cristina Barcelona to the hell of flops, an intrusive, pointless voice-over narration ensures it. The worst of it is that the next Woody Allen will need to receive rave reviews (and this time I’ll read them with care!) before this jaded fan tries again.