LOOK, I’M WOODY. HOWDY, HOWDY, HOWDY.
Starring Jonathan Rhys Meyers
M
Ohhhhh, right. This is just what his films are like. Woody Allen films are different. They don’t have to be realistic, they don’t have to have relatable characters, they don’t have to make sense. They’re all classical theatre transposed to the modern day, exclusive tales of upper class dandies falling from grace, dabbling with boredom and occasionally flashing their tits. Allen himself thinks Match Point is his best film. The world would respect his opinion if he hadn’t spent the last decade making terrible films. He’s wrong. He’ll make better in Scoop and Vicky Christina Barcelona, and for the sake of this blog’s sanity this year he has to have made better in the past.
At best Match Point is vaguely interesting, like an Abercrombie and Fitch advert repeated for two hours, the models occasionally shooting each other in the face or saying something ridiculous. As a study of passion, obsession and social climbing it’s so glacial and removed from reality that it’s impossible to feel anything towards the chiseled protagonist, but not Brechtian enough to step back and consider his predicament. The other characters flit about with little to do or say, all again played by various English thesps desperate to work with the Master on his European Holiday. It’s boring. It’s just boring as hell.
… His films always have the same titles at the beginning. This makes for a good sense of synergy across his output. The way he lists his actors alphabetically is nice.
What’s the sound of grasping at straws?
No comments:
Post a Comment