Woody Allen makes a film a year, and this is about his 40th, unless I’ve lost count. To those familiar with the Manhattan minstrel’s increasingly bleak comic work, his signature theme is as familiar as ever as he peers once again into the void.
Just in case we don’t get it, Allen uses his unseen narrator to enlist the help of William Shakespeare, courtesy of Macbeth, to remind us that “life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing”.
And that’s just the start of Woody’s annual calling card to his fan base, just to make sure we realise there are no cosy cosmic reassurances on offer.
What do human beings do to stop themselves thinking about their godless universe? Well, they scrabble for sex, success and money, but most of all they want love.
Since the turn of the century, Allen has increasingly based his films in England in particular and Europe in general, in fact anywhere but the United States. His latest is no exception as his latest cast of no-hopers live in well-heeled London.
First off, there’s the unhappily married couple of Sally (Naomi Watts) and the thoroughly dislikeable Roy (Josh Brolin with an awful haircut). Roy, a novelist, enjoyed one early success but is now afflicted by writer’s block, perhaps encouraged by Sally’s ceaseless nagging. They both live on the money of Sally’s mother, Helena (Gemma Jones), who visits them ceaselessly, drinking their whisky and whatever else is on offer as she nurses the heartbreak of being left by her long-time husband Alfie (Anthony Hopkins).
Meanwhile, in a desperate bid to recapture his youth, Alfie hitches up with a blonde floozy (Lucy Punch) who, while reviving his sex life, starts to quickly empty his wallet not to mention his supply of Viagra. Helena travels in the opposite direction, visiting a fortune teller (Pauline Collins) and hanging on her every fraudulent word.
That, more or less, is the concentrated mix of humanity that Allen offers us, although there are cameos for the suave Antonio Banderas, Freida Pinto (from Slumdog Millionaire) and Roger Ashton-Griffiths. Further narrative developments can safely be left for the viewer to discover.
It remains to be said, however, that Allen’s direction is superb while his dialogue is crisply cynical. The acting is uniformly excellent, with Jones outstanding as the slightly barmy dipso mother whose spiritualist nonsense propels her in the unlikely direction of happiness as she meets, not a tall dark stranger, but a short, squat one. - The Mercury