Written and Directed by Woody Allen

Extra, extra: Cale calls Johansson "flat"...

There is a way to enjoy Woody Allen’s latest regurgitation of old jokes, bad jokes, and a storyline so familiar that the only surprise is that the cast can get through it without falling asleep, but it requires that the viewer be in as bad a mood as humanly possible. Expect the worst, contemplate forms of misery and woe, and flop down in your seat with the understanding that the next 90 minutes will be an excruciating exercise in unyielding torture. Enter pissed, and you just might get your money’s worth. That said, the movie isn’t that bad, (it’s sad that that’s the highest form of praise Allen’s entitled to these days) though it remains so obscenely inconsequential that it could be fully understood with only half-attention being paid. Fortunately, it’s nowhere near the level of incompetence of Woody’s all-time disaster Hollywood Ending, but after his welcome return to weighty drama, it’s like following a blowjob with a TV dinner. I wanted to believe in Allen once again (even if Match Point was itself a bastard child of Crimes and Misdemeanors), but now I’m forced to admit that he means it when he says that he continues working in the hope that by staying busy, he’ll avoid death. Unfortunately, his neuroses are amusing himself alone.

If you’ve seen Manhattan Murder Mystery, Shadows and Fog, or Broadway Danny Rose (or any number of bloodless comedies over the past 100 years), you’ve explored every dusty nook and overplayed cranny of Scoop, though the familiar trappings of Manhattan have given way to London, which represents an uncharacteristic change for the phobic Allen. But given the script and characters, this sort of shtick could be played out in Moscow, Cairo, or a remote island in the South Pacific. Unlike most of Allen’s films, where the city of his birth became a supporting player, London never interacts with the actors quite as it should, though it remains one of the world’s great cities. This isn’t Woody’s home turf, of course, but it is this unfamiliarity that leaves us cold and bored by the locale. This is exacerbated by his insistence on seeming to care only about the lives of the idle class, which afflicted the New York stories as well, but never seemed so obnoxious as they do now. I’ve usually found great comfort in the characters of an Allen film, as they speak unlike so many contemporary Americans, but at this point, I’d love to know if it is possible for him to stumble across a flesh and blood human being who has no interest in art galleries, the ballet, or classical music. Woody’s personal politics are decidedly on the Left, but with each passing year, he becomes more aristocratic and elitist, and not in the way I usually support. This might have muscle if I believed that Woody was exposing the hypocrisies of the rich, but I’m afraid he genuinely finds these people more interesting. Shocking, but why else make so many goddamn movies about them?

Again, if the story must be discussed, it concerns one Sondra Pransky (Scarlett Johansson), an uber-twit journalism student, who meets Sid Waterman (Woody) while helping him with a magic trick in his show. While immersed in a disappearing cabinet, she encounters the recently dead Joe Strombel (Ian McShane), a top reporter who returns from the River Styx to help the young girl break the story of a lifetime. The “scoop” involves the infamous Tarot Card Killer, a serial murderer who is butchering prostitutes much like Jack the Ripper over a century before. The case is made bigger by the fact that Strombel’s source (an equally dead woman) claims that the killer is none other than Peter Lyman (Hugh Jackman), a budding politician and one of the country’s richest and most dashing gentlemen. Sondra goes undercover to investigate, convinces Sid to act as her father, and after a few days, falls in love with Peter, no longer convinced that he’s guilty. Joe keeps appearing and offering more clues, while the mystery deepens after a psychopath admits to the killings. It should surprise no one that Peter, while not the serial killer, has committed a murder of his own; a prostitute that threatened to go public with the relationship, thereby ruining his career and reputation. Peter wisely tried to make the crime look like the work of the Tarot Card Killer, but Sondra and Sid stumble across the truth just in time. No, it’s nothing but nonsense (including further references to his own movies, which were themselves copying from classics like A Place in the Sun), but it manages to entertain in spite of itself. I have no idea why I stayed involved, but there’s no fighting it -- it didn’t suck.

That said, Miss Johansson was an abomination, giving not only the worst performance of her career, but one so odorous that it deserves its own special category at next year’s Razzies. I’ve never been fond of Johansson’s work, but she can handle low-key, disaffected parts (she’s just right in Ghost World) far better than anything approaching up-tempo. She was clearly the weak link in Match Point, but at least she had the dramatic surroundings to keep her grounded. Here, trying desperately to channel a screwball heroine in that Woody Allen style, her limitations are laid bare for all the world to see. She’s flat, artificial, and disturbingly wooden, as if she’s forgotten how to speak coherently. And unlike other Allen women who are able to convey smarts, Johansson is barely sentient, which makes her turn as a tart able to seduce a sophisticated snob that much more ridiculous. She’s but a few ounces from being completely obliterated by her bosom, but she lacks wit and cunning, and therefore becomes the last person we’d want to follow around a scavenger hunt, even if it’s meant to be a mindless farce. She might have uttered some good lines, but her delivery is so mannered that I couldn’t be absolutely certain she said anything at all. If Woody Allen’s infatuation with the young Scarlett continues, he’s apt to dig himself further into an ever-darkening hole of irrelevance. He might disappear altogether.

Speaking of great lines, there is one, occurring as Woody interacts with the elite at one of Peter’s parties. Asked about his religion, he states, “I was born into the Hebrew persuasion, but when I got older I converted to narcissism.” It’s funny on several levels, but most revealing of all, it sums up what Woody Allen has become as a filmmaker. His world is so narrow -- so utterly self-directed -- that he is unable to transcend a story that has been told repeatedly, often replaying dialogue word for word. His films are curiously otherworldly; devoid of politics, social relevance, or even the popular culture in general, he shuts the doors, tunes out external distractions, and goes through the motions of the cinematic craft. In many ways, time stands still on an Allen shoot, and his screenplays are a sad study in creative bankruptcy, as well as total emotional paralysis. In his mind, Freud remains unchallenged, Bergman a trendy auteur, and a Mahler concert the best way to spend an evening.

Eternal themes abound, still -- the absurdity of love, the wicked game of sex, and the randomness of life -- but Woody has left society behind, partly out of disgust, but primarily because he’s never had to take a beating in the arena. He’s been on auto-pilot all these years because the money’s always there, total control over the final cut assured, and the actors ready and willing to work for such a legendary figure. It’s true what they say -- all art worth preserving, or at least dissecting with the knowledge that it will stimulate discussions throughout the ages, is borne of struggle. Art produced amidst affluence, comfort, and predictability is almost always in service of the status quo, or at the very least fails to stimulate the nobler passions. It’s product, nothing more. But as societies crack and crumble, the creative juices begin flowing, and we are once again face to face with what makes us flawed, complex, and fascinating -- it’s the essence of our common humanity. But Woody’s world is exempt from all that, and he’s on the opposite shore from risk and challenge. It makes sense then, that not only can he no longer make us think, he’s unfamiliar with the very things that can make us laugh.