I'm all for punishin' the sh** outta shallow Americans, but I saw "Crimes and Misdemeanors" and "Match Point" and they were the same damn flick, both about hanky pankyin' dudes, bumpin' off their troublesome on the side chicks. They were both damn good, but "relevant" isn't what I really put next to Woody's name anymore in my neighborhood.

"Relevant" isn't what I really put next to Woody's name anymore in my neighborhood.

I'm with you. Actually, "pedophile" is what I'd put next to his name.

I can't wait until next year's Woody Allen's Best Film In Years!

What was Javier Bardem's haircut like?

And in his character's particular case

It was the shroom of doom.

The review contradicts the headline (or, to be precise, damns the movie with its disdain for Allen's work over the last twenty years). I tend to agree with this opinion, but know that people who aren't paying attention will completely misunderstand -- and blame the writer for overpraising a mediocre movie.

Rightfully, that blame should fall on the editor who mislabeled the piece. Editors, please listen to your writers before you press the send button.

The current tragic husk of a figure would have been treated mercilessly in one of the earlier films.

Still, he writes better films on his worst day than I could ever dream of writing. I may even get this one from Netflix in a couple year.

How did a such a glib, lazy colloquialism like: "Hello? What century is this, Woody?" get past the editors, to say nothing of O'Hehir's self-editor. Dude! Whatever.

I made it as far as "sapphic love scene between Scarlett Johansson and Penélope Cruz" before adding it to my Netflix queue. I'm not going to bother reading the rest of the review.

How many of us would honor Diane Keaton or Mia Farrow if they had oogled over their adopted son for years and then married them?

Come on! Woody either wants Penolope, Scarlett or Bardon?

Woody Allen is ultimately in love with his own dick and ego? He is the snake devouring himself.

Okay, so Woody Allen can't approach the glory of Manhattan or Annie Hall. Very few filmakers alive or dead can, and very few older artists ever match their seminal early works. Not even Sidney Lumet - Before the Devil Knows You're Dead is great but not as great as Prince of the City, just as Matchpoint was great if not as great as Crimes and Misdemeanors.

Woody Allen doesn't live in the real world anymore, so it's no surprise that his films can sometimes seem like scripts written 40 years ago. Deconstructing Harry was the last great "Woody Allen movie", but all but the worst (Scoop)of his recent films are better than a lot of the naval-gazing mood pieces that pass for independent films these days.

To answer the question: No.

I hate to break the news, but even Woody Allen’s anointed classics like Annie Hall aren’t that great either. While his self-obsessed psychic gout and largely trite cultural observations might be interesting to him and give those lit crit cineastes who endlessly repeat the received wisdom that Allen is a Great Artiste a big woody, he’s been coasting on a largely undeserved reputation for some time now- and it was good to see him called on that here. His funny or genuinely insightful moments have been too few and too far between for too long to make him interesting to those of us who regard storytelling as a valid value in cinema. Hottie lesbo fu isn’t enough to make me want to sit through more of Allen’s wankage- methinx I’ll give Barcelona the big miss.

I rarely pick aprt movie reviews, but this one left me as disgruntled as the movie apparently left the reviewer. I guess it started here:

"...I was asking myself the kinds of disgruntled questions I wanted to ask all the way through the movie, such as, Who the hell still has a darkroom these days?

"Yeah, I know; some people still have darkrooms. In fairness, one of the few distinguishing characteristics of Cristina, Johansson's post-graduate American wanderer, is that she prefers old-school film to digital photography."

Let's see, the movie explicitly includes a character who, like quite a few people in real life, prefers old-school film. And still O'Hehir wants to whine, "Who the hell has a darkroom these days?" The answer's right there in the movie. What are you complaining about?

Once that threw me off my stride, I noticed "When was the last time anybody under 40 played bridge, except at some so-square-it's-hip 1950s retromania party?" The answer is: bridge players. I don't happen to be one, but I know they can be found in all types, shapes, and ages. It's a hobby, like old-film school. Are you just looking for things to be annoyed about?

By this time I was, so when I saw "Allen doesn't speak Spanish, and uncharacteristically allowed Bardem and Cruz to freelance extensively on the set," I had to wonder: freelance? Isn't the term ad lib?

Qua bridge player, I mean. But the character of Vicky's fiance is something else entirely. He's a shallow post-Ivy MBA caricature who is presented, not with much wit or originality, as belonging to a social world that hasn't existed for at least 30 years (and more like 50), one where white people of the right sort get together for social bridge games on Friday nights. There's no suggestion that he gives a crap about bridge, per se; if it seemed like he did, I would have no complaints.

Similarly, I felt like the whole thing about Cristina wanting to shoot on film was just chucked in there to explain the existence of a darkroom, used so artfully in the Scarlett-Penelope kiss scene. I would put down money that someone told Allen during pre-production that he needed to supply a reason why some 23-year-old was bothering to develop film in a darkroom, because most people don't. Possibly I didn't spell out clearly or thoroughly enough that this movie has a highly consistent feeling: It feels as if the script were set in 1964, but then they didn't have the money for all the wardrobe and production design and just dragged it awkwardly into the present.

Oh, and the guy who wants to rent the movie just on the promise of some lesbo action? He's *really* going to be disappointed. The scene is like 8 seconds long, and nobody disrobes or anything.