Conventional wisdom suggests that when an American recipe is adapted into a Latin-style dish, the resulting feast should be a bit more exotic, thanks to spices, salsa, peppers and a greater tolerance by Latins for that which is decidedly hotter. Certainly, that was the promise that came with Woody Allen's first attempt at making a movie in Spain. The buzz heralding the American premiere of VICKY CRISTINA BARCELONA had it that the film would include a daring "menage a trois" featuring Scarlett Johansson, Javier Bardem and Penelope Cruz, with an added incentive being a particularly titillating liplock between Scarlett and Penelope. But anyone taken in by such advance P.R. would have done well to recall the similar word-of-mouth that preceded Stanley Kubrick's achingly over-hyped EYES WIDE SHUT, another artsy epic that promised taboo-busting sexuality from a director with no prior skill for, or interest in, any sort of erotica.
As it happens, Cruz and Johansson do smooch a quickie, but really do nothing that Madonna wouldn't try on an awards show. And other than this kiss, the sexuality in the film is low-key at best and simply off screen most of the time. We have to take Johansson's word that there is a "trois" in this "menage," because Woody certainly doesn't show much of anything that might be considered shocking.
Indeed, the decor may be contemporary Latin, but the cuisine itself is warmed over specials from the Woodman's standard deli menu. It is Manhattan-lite -- and low-cal at that. That's not to say that VCB isn't edible, just a bit familiar. A serving of pseudo-intellectual chatter, a heaping helping of romantic dissatisfaction with a side order of indecision, all sweetened with witty one-liners and a gentle sprinkle of cynicism. VICKY CRISTINA BARCELONA is one of Allen's better recent efforts, but it tastes strangely pre-packaged and microwave ready.
Twenty-somethings Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Johansson) take a vacation in Barcelona to see the sights and to "ooh" and "ahh" over the art work at the museums. But they hardly get their bags unpacked before they are approached by a famous painter named Juan Antonio (Bardem), who invites them to fly off to another Spanish city for a weekend threeway. Cristina eagerly says yes, while Vicky reluctantly tags along. The threeway tryst doesn't quite come off -- carnally speaking, but eventually it is the already-engaged Vicky who ends up doing a one-nighter with Juan Antonio. But Cristina hangs in there and soon moves in with the artist. Juan Antonio's homicidal/suicidal ex-wife, Maria Elena (Cruz) suddenly shows up as well. Complicated love triangles are promised, but Allen's script only sets up romantic complications that he has no interest in resolving. This is a film made up mostly of propositions and exposition and precious little copulation.
As for making the film in Barcelona, that springs less from artistic inspiration and more from financial convenience. There's little here that couldn't have happened in Woody's old stomping grounds of Manhattan. Other than a few music selections and some fiery conversation between Bardem and Cruz (who steal the movie), there is little on hand to remind the viewer that the movie was filmed in Spain. Even the totally unnecessary (and annoying) narration is provided by a stern male Anglo voice. And for that matter, this is a film with two female protagonists, so why doesn't it have a female narrator? Possibly Woody didn't even think about it -- indeed, the narration seems like a dramatic shortcut to avoid putting too much effort into actually filming extra scenes.
As always, VCB is a polished production: the acting is solid, much of the dialogue crisp and the look of the film is slick and professional. But the whole thing is so uninspired. Even within his relatively narrow range of interests, Allen's movies have long been remarkably inventive and he has stubbornly tried to avoid the cliché. Now, he is falling back on his own clichés, doing nothing more than the bare minimum to get the job done. Efficiency is not necessarily a virtue. And though Woody seems to be covering new territory with his recent extended European vacation, the ground he covers isn't dramatic, only geographic.
As it happens, Cruz and Johansson do smooch a quickie, but really do nothing that Madonna wouldn't try on an awards show. And other than this kiss, the sexuality in the film is low-key at best and simply off screen most of the time. We have to take Johansson's word that there is a "trois" in this "menage," because Woody certainly doesn't show much of anything that might be considered shocking.
Indeed, the decor may be contemporary Latin, but the cuisine itself is warmed over specials from the Woodman's standard deli menu. It is Manhattan-lite -- and low-cal at that. That's not to say that VCB isn't edible, just a bit familiar. A serving of pseudo-intellectual chatter, a heaping helping of romantic dissatisfaction with a side order of indecision, all sweetened with witty one-liners and a gentle sprinkle of cynicism. VICKY CRISTINA BARCELONA is one of Allen's better recent efforts, but it tastes strangely pre-packaged and microwave ready.
Twenty-somethings Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Johansson) take a vacation in Barcelona to see the sights and to "ooh" and "ahh" over the art work at the museums. But they hardly get their bags unpacked before they are approached by a famous painter named Juan Antonio (Bardem), who invites them to fly off to another Spanish city for a weekend threeway. Cristina eagerly says yes, while Vicky reluctantly tags along. The threeway tryst doesn't quite come off -- carnally speaking, but eventually it is the already-engaged Vicky who ends up doing a one-nighter with Juan Antonio. But Cristina hangs in there and soon moves in with the artist. Juan Antonio's homicidal/suicidal ex-wife, Maria Elena (Cruz) suddenly shows up as well. Complicated love triangles are promised, but Allen's script only sets up romantic complications that he has no interest in resolving. This is a film made up mostly of propositions and exposition and precious little copulation.
As for making the film in Barcelona, that springs less from artistic inspiration and more from financial convenience. There's little here that couldn't have happened in Woody's old stomping grounds of Manhattan. Other than a few music selections and some fiery conversation between Bardem and Cruz (who steal the movie), there is little on hand to remind the viewer that the movie was filmed in Spain. Even the totally unnecessary (and annoying) narration is provided by a stern male Anglo voice. And for that matter, this is a film with two female protagonists, so why doesn't it have a female narrator? Possibly Woody didn't even think about it -- indeed, the narration seems like a dramatic shortcut to avoid putting too much effort into actually filming extra scenes.
As always, VCB is a polished production: the acting is solid, much of the dialogue crisp and the look of the film is slick and professional. But the whole thing is so uninspired. Even within his relatively narrow range of interests, Allen's movies have long been remarkably inventive and he has stubbornly tried to avoid the cliché. Now, he is falling back on his own clichés, doing nothing more than the bare minimum to get the job done. Efficiency is not necessarily a virtue. And though Woody seems to be covering new territory with his recent extended European vacation, the ground he covers isn't dramatic, only geographic.