REVIEW: To Rome with Love directed by Woody Allen
I love Woody Allen. In particular I love Woody Allen circa 1977. We've left Everything you ever wanted to know about sex* (*but were afraid to ask) almost long enough ago to forget about it and Annie Hall is in full swing. I love Woody's neurosis, his stammer his overall twitchiness. It's been awhile since I've seen him play himself (well sure, a character, but we all know what that really entails), not in Midnight in Paris, not in Vicky Christina Barcelona. Sadly this seems to be a good thing. In To Rome with Love Allen, now 76* (*a 'how old is Woody Allen?' Google search tells me) still stammers, still worries, is still completely erratic however the life seems to have gone out of him. The bags under his eyes neatly match up with the bottom of his signature glasses (Google cannot tell me the term for the style of these). It's upsetting to say but Woody Allen seems to be an old man desperately trying to recreate himself 40 years ago, and I'm sincerely sorry Woody, but you're coming up short. Perhaps the time has come to hand over to the Owen Wilsons and Jesse Eisenbergs permanently.
Despite all this I loved the movie. I love Alec Baldwin inexplicably hanging out with the young lovers of Paris. I LOVE the idea that a man can sing Turandot in the shower but is tone deaf when he steps out. I love watching what Woody Allen loves about Rome.
I have two ratings for the film:
In 2nd division (as ranked alongside all other films) 4 stars
In premier division (ranked in the universe of Woody Allen films) 3 stars
To Rome with Love is no Annie Hall but it sits happily alongside Matchpoint and Scoop.