How did this kitsch-fest become Woody Allen’s highest grossing movie? Paris is beautiful, oui. The lives of great artists are fascinating, oui, oui. But a cheap time-travel gimmick in service to a shopworn Woody Allen plot squanders such gifts.
The answer to its popularity must be the voyeuristic fun of spying on great artists like Hemingway and Picasso, sort of a People magazine for art history romantics, a grown-up Night at the Museum. Fair enough, just don’t call it art. For me, it nearly sank below the level of entertainment.
Vicky Cristina Barcelona it ain’t.
Owen Wilson makes a weak Woody Allen doppelgänger. Likable actor, poor role.
Rachel McAdams plays an unlikable character unlikably. But then this wouldn’t be the first time a smart and beautiful actress made a poor choice about appearing in a Woody Allen movie.
Two French actresses are the best performers on screen.
Sadly the performers playing the great artists who once made Paris their home deliver impressions, not full blooded performances. Phonies, nearly one and all.
Woody Allen films are always kvetchy. They’re rarely this banal, uncharismatic and tedious.
Real or surreal? Appropriate question for a movie featuring Salvador Dali. Taking the movie at face value, not granting it the Wizard of Oz exemption, the answer is surreal physioreality.
Regarding BrianSez’s Review
Spot on review Bri. This movie has been wildly overpraised by the professionals.