Some Woody moments but not enough.
Café Society
Grade: C+
Director: Woody Allen (Midnight in Paris)
Screenplay: Allen
Cast: Jesse Eisenberg (The Social Network), Kristin Stewart (Equals)
Rating: PG-13
Runtime: 96 min.
by John DeSando
“Life is a comedy written by a sadistic comedy writer.” Bobby (Jesse Eisenberg)
No one has ever accused Woody Allen of being sadistic, but as he warms over themes and tropes from his other comedies for Café Society, he is beginning to be downright cynical about his work if not a bit so about humanity.
It’s Depression-era Woodman, jazz in the background, partly in LA and NYC, wardrobes and backgrounds bathed in a glow that replicates my nostalgic impression of an era past and some arcane references for those younger than I. After all, would you expect most millennials to know who Joan Crawford and Adolph Menjou are? The pop-cult actors of the period referenced throughout are just too many.
Agreed, Uncle Phil (Steve Carell), a Hollywood mogul, must deal with stars all day, but for 96 min. references to them are to be expected. Phil and his nephew, Bobby, who as a greenhorn from the Bronx comes to work for uncle in Hollywood, are both in love with Vonnie (Kristen Stewart), Phil’s secretary. She has more glamour than most of the stars appearing on Woody’s screen (exception: Blake Lively as Bobby’s wife is every bit a star).
I love Allen’s nostalgic pieces, most notably the wistfully romantic Midnight in Paris, whose imaginative conceit of visiting the ‘20’s at Midnight is magical, as opposed to the expected glamour of the sets and costumes of Café Society. Even having Bobby in white tux managing a famous nightclub when his former love Vonnie comes in on the arm of her famous husband, Phil, doesn’t provide any of the crisp dialogue and smoldering romance Casablanca had.
Although it’s not fair to compare any film with that classic, the comparison is instructive about what Café Society lacks.
Hardly magical or imaginative is the basic plot of a triangle that includes the usually diffident Bobby, whose naiveté is understandable given his youthfulness. Yet no new ground is covered despite the comedic possibilities of uncle and nephew vying for the same young lady.
At times Allen has witty lines like the one at the beginning of this essay and this exchange between Bobby’s mom and dad: “I accept death, but under protest,” Dad says. “Protest to who?” Mom retorts. However, those gems are too few, at least given the rich Allen films that precede this one. His nostalgic comedy makes me nostalgic for him in better films.
John DeSando, a Los Angeles Press Club first-place winner for National Entertainment Journalism, hosts WCBE’s It’s Movie Time and co-hosts Cinema Classics. Contact him at JDeSando@Columbus.rr.com
