This soft-courderoy trouser of a movie is perfectly harmless and almost entirely forgettable. Not bad enough for a spot on a “Bad Movie Triple Bill” post, not good enough to deserve a longer review.
Basically, Woody Allen fantasises he is Timothy Chalamet (who emerges blameless and as utterly charming as always) whilst walking around some very nice spots in New York… in the rain. Yes, it is cute and quaint, and you do kinda wish you were there doing those things, but nothing at all is new or insightful in any way Allen didn’t explore better 30 years ago.
Middle class melancholy aside, the only talking point of real note here is whether it is still acceptable to like Woody Allen and/or his films? And whether it is possible to separate the two? It’s a very old argument by now. My opinion on it has always been that, yes, it is possible to divide art from the artist. Picasso was a womanising arse, I still like Guernica. I think the old Woody classics are still classics despite his dodgy real-life decisions. The trouble is that most of his latter-day output is not especially good. Some, like this one, are not that bad either – just, what is the point of them?
Selena Gomez is also perfectly charming, and the film is often remarkably pretty. But, it does also feel a little like an advert for a lifestyle rather than anything worth thinking about at all. However, perhaps a little guiltily, I do enjoy the aesthetic of that fantasy – at least enough to watch it to the end without wishing it was over already. I adored Midnight in Paris, but I do fear that might be a rare blip on an otherwise downward spiral for Allen. Yet as long as supporting actors such as Jude Law, Diego Luna, Leiv Schreiber, and Elle Fanning keep signing on for these lighter scripts, they will keep happening until the old man pops his loafers. And I’ll keep watching them, for better or worse.
Decinemal Rating: 67
The Wasteland 