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Cassandra's Dream (2007): If Woody Allen ever made a potboiler, this is it. Nobody pays less or directs more passively than Allen, and obviously he got some sort of sweet deal to go to England for this one. His usual crew isn't listed in the credits, and for all intents and purposes, it looks like a Brit film. Allen is at heart a writer (he mentioned he'd be perfectly satisfied doing that when Mia stirred up his scandal) - and has said directing bores him. The problem with this one is, he didn't write anything interesting before he made a finger gesture to start the cameras rolling.
What's really maddening about the film is that it leads you and keeps you on board until its train breaks down and lets you off at some boring podunk waterhole of a plot ending. The additional fascination that will keep Allen's regular fans on board for the finish is that, like the more worthy effort MATCH POINT, it's not one of his self-indulgent plots focusing on well-worn Allen themes of old man - young woman, death anxiety, or celebrity. Nor do any of the characters (with a couple of minor exceptions) speak in the stuttering, stammering, neurotic "Allen voice" that ALL characters speak in throughout some of his other films. But that shouldn't be surprising - the deal he struck obviously involved using a Brit crew rather than his regulars, and he cranked out a script that would make the investors take the hook - something "accessible." What doesn't work about this is - well, everything. Allen writes what's basically a morality tale, with a character haunted by conscience. As Allen has made clear in interviews, he's an atheist haunted by the yawning gape of the void that awaits beggar and director alike, and of course what that results in is a senseless and somewhat nihilistic ending.
As a senseless and nihilistic ending is about as far as you can get from "old Hollywood," it's become a cliche button-pusher for anyone seeking critical acclaim. That's why movies like NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN, with a nail-gun toting character more debased than Freddy Kreuger on his worst day, are treated like the second coming of Shakespeare. Here, though, Allen gets too lazy, is too amoral to imagine immorality, his pacing is off, and his action is too tame for modern filmgoers because his camera lens blinks liike it's 1935 when it's time to show the fun violence. With instincts suited to low-budget New York features aimed at a posh crowd, he can't make the transition to a tale of working class Brits willing to engage in violence for the Brass Ring that's routinely inherited by his usual set of characters. It's a flawed but interesting detour for Allen in the sense of academic film studies, but no crowd pleaser in the sense of entertainment that aims higher than the Boob Tube. The only thing good about this one is the Philip Glass score, which provides a refreshing break from Woody's jazz library - excellent though it is.
What's really maddening about the film is that it leads you and keeps you on board until its train breaks down and lets you off at some boring podunk waterhole of a plot ending. The additional fascination that will keep Allen's regular fans on board for the finish is that, like the more worthy effort MATCH POINT, it's not one of his self-indulgent plots focusing on well-worn Allen themes of old man - young woman, death anxiety, or celebrity. Nor do any of the characters (with a couple of minor exceptions) speak in the stuttering, stammering, neurotic "Allen voice" that ALL characters speak in throughout some of his other films. But that shouldn't be surprising - the deal he struck obviously involved using a Brit crew rather than his regulars, and he cranked out a script that would make the investors take the hook - something "accessible." What doesn't work about this is - well, everything. Allen writes what's basically a morality tale, with a character haunted by conscience. As Allen has made clear in interviews, he's an atheist haunted by the yawning gape of the void that awaits beggar and director alike, and of course what that results in is a senseless and somewhat nihilistic ending.
As a senseless and nihilistic ending is about as far as you can get from "old Hollywood," it's become a cliche button-pusher for anyone seeking critical acclaim. That's why movies like NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN, with a nail-gun toting character more debased than Freddy Kreuger on his worst day, are treated like the second coming of Shakespeare. Here, though, Allen gets too lazy, is too amoral to imagine immorality, his pacing is off, and his action is too tame for modern filmgoers because his camera lens blinks liike it's 1935 when it's time to show the fun violence. With instincts suited to low-budget New York features aimed at a posh crowd, he can't make the transition to a tale of working class Brits willing to engage in violence for the Brass Ring that's routinely inherited by his usual set of characters. It's a flawed but interesting detour for Allen in the sense of academic film studies, but no crowd pleaser in the sense of entertainment that aims higher than the Boob Tube. The only thing good about this one is the Philip Glass score, which provides a refreshing break from Woody's jazz library - excellent though it is.