Summer of lust

It could be that Woody Allen fans, rather like the neurotic auteur himself, are never happy. After Allens Bergman experiments in the late '70s and '80s, moviegoers lamented the passing of his "early, funny films." After the 1990s and a string of tossed-off semi-comedies, people pined for the moral seriousness of Crimes and Misdemeanours (1989).

Vicky Cristina Barcelona, his latest film, has echoes of both strains. Combining comic pleasures with a tragic sense of the transience of love, Allens 38^th feature is consistently watchable definitely more Match Point than Hollywood Ending. But for all the charms of setting and cast, this anti-romantic roundelay still doesnt feel like a fully developed film.

Allen, who has recently ventured outside Manhattan for inspiration, shoots Barcelona as a sun-warmed panorama of Antoni Gaudi architecture and Joan Mir murals. A self-consciously literary narrator (voiced by Christopher Evan Welch) relates the story of two young American women summering in Spain. Grad student Vicky (Rebecca Hall of The Prestige) is crisp and practical, and is engaged to a safe, suitable investment banker back home. Coming off a bad breakup and some failed creative projects, Cristina (played by current Allen muse Scarlett Johansson) is impulsive and restless. As the narrator suggests, in an oddly detached tone, Cristina "believes that suffering is inevitably the price paid for passion."

This schematic setup the rational brunette, the emotional blonde gets rattled when the women meet Spanish painter Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem). Bardems bull-like masculinity and puppy-dog eyes combine to swoony effect. When Juan Antonio proposes a weekend away "We will eat well, drink wine and make love" both women agree. Juan Antonio remains open-minded about who, exactly, will make love. He initially seduces the prickly Vicky, but later moves on to a relationship with Cristina. This arrangement is disrupted by the spectacular midnight arrival of Juan Antonios former wife, Maria Elena, played by the glorious Penlope Cruz.

Perhaps the Mediterranean setting has warmed Woody up. Aided by experienced Spanish cinematographer Javier Aguirresarobe, Allen dips his toes into beauty, ease, enjoyment, even eroticism. (Forget those internet rumours about hotsy-totsy action between Cruz and Scar-Jo, though the sex scenes are discreet.) Still, lavish lunches and languid lovemaking can only last so long when the people involved are analytical, unsure and plagued with self-doubt and second-guessing. Allen has become less prone to cast himself in his films, but in Vicky Cristina Barcelona, he is obviously speaking through his very talky characters. "If you dont start undressing me soon," Cristina tells Juan Antonio at one point, "this is going to turn into a panel discussion."

As usual, Allens players are effortlessly wealthy, their bohemian inclinations underpinned with unlimited bank accounts, and their problems seem to be of their own making. Vicky and Cristina sometimes feel like planned polarities, carefully diagrammed to express Allens pessimistic vision of relationships. (According to Woody, we can choose between settling for dull routine or being harried by chronic dissatisfaction.) Fortunately, the over-determined writing is fleshed out with vivid, sometimes unexpected ensemble performances that get a considerable charge from the second-act entrance of Cruz. Maria Elena doesnt sit in a chair; she possesses it. She doesnt wear a dress; she inhabits it. She drinks, paints, contradicts, proclaims and smokes her head off. In her overwhelming presence, Juan Antonio is revealed as a wounded romantic, tormented by inevitable yet impossible love.

Even at his worst, Allen has always been able to wangle incredible casts, mixing up New York theatre pros, undervalued character actors and hot celebrities. Here, Johanssons golden aura, along with Cruz and Bardems off-the-charts sexiness, is grounded in the steady work of Patricia Clarkson and Kevin Dunn as family friends and Chris Messina as Vickys fianc.

Yet in capturing their efforts, Allen often seems distant, especially during the escalating events of the films last half. The ending is underplayed, but not with the delicacy of ric Rohmer or the subtle urbanity of Max Ophls. Rather, it feels as if Allen has lost interest in his characters and just wants to get them on the plane. Like the Spanish summer of Vicky and Cristina, the film is easily enjoyed, and just as easily forgotten.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona opens Aug. 15.

Alison Gillmor is a writer based in Winnipeg.