WHY PEOPLE ARE calling Vicky Cristina Barcelona a romantic comedy is a mystery. Woody Allen’s latest film, while set in a sumptuous location, owes far more to Chekhov than it does to the frisky, happily-ever-after love stories that define the genre. There are laughs to be sure, rising mainly from people doing outrageous things involving sex, but at heart this is a tragic story where unrequited love stands in for unrequited life. The climax is a boldfaced theft from Uncle Vanya.
A juicy premise: two lovely young women go off to spend the summer in Barcelona as guests of a well-heeled American couple. Vicky (Rebecca Hall) leaves behind a fiancée. Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) has just finished a tortuous relationship and a bad 12-minute film (her opinion). Alone together and footloose, the girls set out to soak up the European lifestyle. Vicky, the serious one with dark hair, is working on a thesis about Catalan identity which takes her into museums, markets and a library. Blonde Cristina has no idea what she wants out of life, except to be sure it definitely isn’t what Vicky wants, which is a stable existence with a nice guy who adores her. Enter a gooey-eyed Spanish painter (Javier Bardem), whose words of introduction come with an invitation to fly away for the weekend as his guest and, hopefully, his bed mate. Vicky is shocked; Christina can’t wait.
The story unfolds behind a deadpan voice-over explaining who these people are and what they’re doing, a device that helps move a complex plot along and, at the same time, gives the movie a vague if slightly ironic documentary feel. The absence of Woody Allen on screen is hugely liberating. Instead of being stuck in his life, we’re in his mind, and that’s a considerably more interesting place to be.
An eventful meditation on the nature of love and commitment, the tale turns on a crisis of whether to follow a festering impulse, or not. Except that Vicky, who owns this movie, doesn’t have clear choices. She has only post-paradise knowledge, an unsettling acquisition for a careful woman. Rebecca Hall turns in an excellent performance. In the thankless role of her fiancé Doug, Chris Messina consoles himself by occasionally aping Allen’s whine for comic effect. Penélope Cruz as the painter’s flamboyant ex-wife, Maria Elena, though a minor part, is the most interesting person on screen, as actress and character. A frustrated genius, she bonds with fluffy Cristina, though Vicky is clearly her soul mate, both being caught in a permanent dilemma. Cruz shows how to live it to the full.
Barcelona is ravishing. Americans far outnumber Spaniards (or Catalans) onscreen, and a great deal of attention is paid to the difference between the two. Believe what you see and you’ll emigrate immediately. Nobody works, except perhaps to swirl around a bit of paint. If nobody’s happy, they certainly aren’t mean. This is a wonderfully entertaining film, surely one of Woody Allen’s best. Life and love are tragic, but nothing ugly or boring ever interferes with perfect angst.
Favourite European moment: an espresso pot and saucepan of milk boil over as two people make love under the kitchen table. Favourite line: Maria Elena declares her ex-husband’s mistress (Johansson) is the missing ingredient in her life: salt.
Continues at Ex-Centris
