LOOK, I’M
WOODY. HOWDY, HOWDY, HOWDY.
Starring A
Picturesque Countryside
Y
Mary STEENBURGEN’S voice occasionally BREAKS
mid sentence. It HOPS and SKIPS about like a gazelle PUMPED full of speed and
thus DISTRACTS YOU FROM THE REST OF THE FILM GOING ON AROUND IT. Luckily
Woody’s being a try-hard again, making up for the loss of his kooky-clothed
muse by casting Mia Farrow as a wafty waif women for the first time and running
full pelt at a fairy tale stuffed with flying machines, red wine and jaunts
through a scenic countryside. Many of Allen’s films use New York itself as a
character, and it’s heartening to see that he can switch his skill set to
another location and use it just as well; the trees and sunlight-dappled stream
banks here are the fluid heart of the story, the nature that the poets and
philosophers espouse pushed to the fore and used to luxurious effect. The
script’s all sex and death again, but the setting refreshes the words, whilst
the performances are all uniformly winsome and wondering. It’s delightful. In
truth it’s a little too nice, and you might find yourself dropping off during
the middle as the umpteenth romantic complication continues to run in circles
and make itself sick. Closest to Vicky
Christina Barcelona in tone, the scenic vistas and babbling brooks mask a
drunken bitch-fight on the nature of reality, but this time he’s a happy little
muffin instead of a leering old man and everything comes together in a cheery
bubble of satisfaction. Woody’s on the form of his life at this point, so he’s
allowed a madcap weekend in the country that doesn’t achieve much but smells of
daisies all the same. Lovely.
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