An intellectual investigation of love which is ultimately Latin—I mean, lacking—in passion

Cert: 15A | Release date: Friday, February 6th 2009 | Runtime: 96 minutes

Of most interest to visitors and contributors to this here blog will be the much-publicised canoodling between leading ladies, Scarlett Johansson and Penélope Cruz (who has received an Oscar nomination for Best Supporting Actress for this role). But don’t let the hype deceive you! This is not the bisexual buffet the tabloids and trailer would lead you to believe. All of the various dalliances among the main characters The same-sex smooches are brief, poorly lit and fleeting and while we’re informed that a whole lot more loving takes place between ScarJo and Penny’s characters, the audience sure as hell ain’t privy to that footage. Hey, I don’t mean to be crass but I thought I’d spare you the blushes of asking for the Sapphic skinny on this flick. This keeps true to Woody Allen’s prevailingly cerebral style of storytelling, e.g. more time is spent talking about events of intrigue rather than the audience observing the lived experience of the characters.

Onto the rest of the film… The characters are not readily likeable: All wear their worst attributes on their sleeves. Vicky (Rebecca Hall) is desperate for acceptance regardless of the flavourless aftertaste such an existence entails. Cristina (Johansson) is free-spirited to the point of recklessly unaware. But this allows for the audience to sympathise with their abundant weaknesses and equally for the characters to transcend the stereotypes they teeter perilously close to. Vicky’s fiancé, the Banana Republican, Doug, is harmless and uneventful. So that’s the triumvirate of Americans and their corresponding stereotypes dealt with. Now for the Spanish ones. Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem) is a womanising painter who treats both of his life passions, art and women, with the same frenzied and exuberant flourish. Then there’s Juan Antonio’s ex-wife, Maria Elena (Cruz), a late but wonderful addition from Madrid, who is as violently volatile as she is inspirational to those she encounters.

The other character, the honey-glazed and resplendent Catalan locale, is worth noting. The stunning cityscape of Barcelona and the languid landscape of assorted excursions afford a quieter, slower pace which provides a much-needed visual counter to the pace of the narration which sometimes ushers the audience a little too hastily through the story.

Ultimately, as a tragedy, the film’s light poignancy is captured in the gentle moments of regret but as a comedy, the film takes itself too seriously. This feels like a lost opportunity because if—like Cristina—it had allowed itself to be less inhibited, and indulged in some farcical scenarios with its stereotyped character set, it could have been a destination-driven gem. Alas, the film is far too like Vicky and desires to be accepted even if the result is mediocrity. All-in-all Vicky Cristina Barcelona offers Irish audiences, robbed of a well-deserved summer, a glimmer of sunlight and a generous glass of cava.

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