And so we see Mort’s self-centered and self-defeating jealousy (when in fact Sue treats him with courtesy throughout), which gets put on the back burner when he, yes, finds intrigue in another younger woman, this one a doctor whom he consults on account of some hypochondriacal complaints. (She’s appealingly played by Elena Anaya.) All the while Mort dreams about his fears and anxieties—and he dreams them as scenes from classic films.
This is a fun conceit, and such conceits, which one also finds in abundance in Allen’s pieces of prose humor, can make for better-than-decent pictures. “Midnight In Paris,” for instance, which garnered substantial critical praise and became a genuine box office hit. That was a little over ten years ago, but doesn’t it seem like forever now? “Rifkin’s Festival” does not hit the highs of “Midnight in Paris,” but its pastiches work pretty well at first. The “Rosebud” joke in the “Citizen Kane” parody got me good. In the bit inspired by Fellini’s “8 ½” the question “Who but a Jew would think of suing God” inspires Mort to a response that gave me the first belly laugh I’ve had with an Allen film in some time. By the time we get to “The Exterminating Angel,” though, Allen’s run out of steam, and seems more inspired by his own “Stardust Memories” than by the Buñuel film.
Wallace Shawn has appeared in a few Allen films since making his screen debut in 1979’s “Manhattan” (as a walking punchline of sorts), but not as many as you might think. In any event, for whatever it’s worth nowadays, he’s an ideal Allen surrogate, because he’s got his own well-established persona which is close enough to Allen’s over-educated schlub schtick but genuinely distinct from it. He’s fun to watch here. As is the rest of the cast. While a very substantial contingent of actors in the U.S. have stated they won’t work with Allen, he manages to make do.
And Allen’s direction, with Vittorio Storaro lensing, is typically fluid. If you’re at all inclined to view this movie, you’ll find it’s very easy to take in. The colors are wonderful—no dun-hued “realism” here, just sunny skies and honey-colored-light pouring through windows, except in the black and white sections. Allen actually pulls off a credible Kubrickean/Andersonian long take in a scene in the doctor’s office. This doesn’t quite compensate for the usual writing infelicities, as when Mort expresses his enthusiasm for the Holy Trinity of the Nouvelle Vague, Godard, Truffaut, and ... Claude Lelouch? Lelouch’s name turns out to be there to set up a dream based on “A Man And A Woman.” But a film critic who would make an aesthetic troika out of those three is not dreamt of in my philosophy.
Now playing in theaters and available on digital platforms.
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