I just left Woody Allen’s new movie, “To Rome With Love,” which I found to be almost abysmally bad. What almost abysmally bad means is beyond me, but the thing was a mess. It had me wondering if Woody Allen isn’t interested in making movies anymore, but instead just filming in his favorite European cities.
Like, seriously, the movie was just like “From Paris With Love,” only worse, because no one was attractive. It was less enjoyable to watch than a contemporary French ensemble film. Normally, I would say go see it anyway, because Woody Allen films, if nothing else, are mirrors into lives of the European upper class, and it’s fun to see where they live, what they eat, and what kinds of cars they drive. But “To Rome With Love” can definitely be skipped.
It got me thinking a bit, however, about Fellini. I think Woody Allen tried—and failed—to imitate Fellini’s ability to seamlessly meld the real and the surreal, the absurd and the commonplace, the operatic and the rational. But oh god, Fellini’s films were so much more beautiful. How could Woody Allen possibly have thought that Ellen Page or Alison Pell could ever stand in for Anita Eckberg or Claudia Cardinale? Sacrilege.
