Film Review: Cafe Society

When you’re a fan of somebody who’s been around a while, you always harbour the hope that they’ve got one more masterpiece in them.  I remain optimistic that Spielberg has another Jaws in him; Scorsese seems to effortlessly turn out masterpieces like The Wolf Of Wall Street; likewise, the Coen brothers with their ability to find genius in remakes and oddities. While Francis Ford Coppola hasn’t really been great in my lifetime (1980, since you’re asking), Oliver Stone’s mojo has apparently deserted him, likewise Brian DePalma, John Carpenter and Spike Lee, while the likes of Clint Eastwood have an approach which is, let’s say ‘scattershot’.  Can Woody Allen be relied upon for one last Annie Hall, or another Manhattan?  Hell, I’d settle for another Midnight In Paris or Blue Jasmine, and I remain hopeful.

When you’re prolific, it’s natural that you’re going to have a mixed success rate.  When Woody is good, he’s still one of the best; when he’s below par, it can be painfully dull.  Cassandra’s Dream remains one of the worst films I’ve ever had the misfortune to see and it’s hard to believe that the same man who made Annie Hall put his name to it.  That said, John Carpenter made both Halloween and Ghosts Of Mars. Time waits for no man…

Woody’s latest, Café Society does a lot of what he’s really good at, and has some moments that recall his profligate, rambling lulls.  Thankfully, the good parts thoroughly outweigh the bad.

It’s recognisably Woody, from the jazzy score to that typeface on the opening credits.  For the second time, he has cast Jessie Eisenberg as his onscreen proxy, and the setting (the roaring 1920s-30s, this time in Hollywood) is one seen before in Bullets Over Broadway and Midnight In Paris.  This being Woody, though, disillusionment rather than nostalgia is the theme of the day and Hollywood turns out to be empty glamour, a far cry from his beloved New York.

Woody is at his comedic best when he gets a little weird: unexplained time travel from Midnight In Paris, fourth-wall breaking and subtitled thoughts in Annie Hall, Alec Baldwin acting as Eisenberg’s visible-to-only-him spirit guide in To Rome With Love, and pretty much all of Deconstructing Harry.  Café Society isn’t particularly strange but one striking playful touch is Woody casting himself as narrator. He will be acutely aware of what it means for writer/director to appear as omniscient narrator in his own film; Woody goes meta, winking at you through the fourth wall.

Whether it’s a comedic caper or a deadly serious meditation, Allen’s skill is often in finding scenarios through which to pose big questions about love, life and death.  He takes the strands of his characters’ stories, twists them into knots, sometimes nooses, and Café Society offers a typically Allen scenario of unrequited lovers and difficult choices.  It’s as satisfying as any ‘love’ story he’s done, with a bittersweet, wordless ending which recalls the break up scene which ends Manhattan; much his characters sometimes want to and maybe should be together, life is cruel and won’t allow it.

The drama is brought to life by some fine performances from an against-type Steve Carrell and a revelatory Kristen Stewart, whose restrained turn helps buy back some of the credibility she lost with all of that silly vampire business.  Eisenberg is good at the Allen impersonation and shows some range as his role changes in the latter stages and he grows in confidence. They are supported by an able cast, including the always-excellent Corey Stoll and Blake Lively.

It has flaws.  Sometimes a frustrating trait of Allen’s is that he includes what seems like every idea, every scene he writes, and this can sometimes mean that his films lose focus.  The central love triangle is engaging and rewarding, but is framed by Bobby’s (Eisenberg) extended family.  Typically Allen, much of the humour is derived from the darkest source, in this case Stoll’s gangster brother, Ben and his murderous tendencies.  While some of the family moments are great and funny (he can’t help but throw in a buzzkill philosopher), they also feel like they don’t add much other than jokes, and feel like they’ve been imported from a different, funnier film.  Some of the family scenes, particularly those concerning an angry next door neighbour, slow down the main plot and make the film seem less focused; fun as they are, you’re often left wondering how it affects the main characters.

That said, Café Society is simply satisfyingly Woody.  It’s beautifully shot, features a wonderful jazz score, and has heart and laughs. It’s sweet and bittersweet where it needs to be, and somewhat satisfyingly puts Woody back in New York following a world tour of sorts; a Central Park-set kiss feels like a reunion between director and city.  He’s also written some of his better zingers on favourite Allen subjects of death and Jewishness in years; it’s just a shame they’re all assigned to characters who sometimes seem like they’re in a cameo from another film.

It’s no Annie Hall, it’s no Manhattan, although it shares DNA with both.  It’s not quite on par with Blue Jasmine or the wonderful Midnight In Paris but easily matches and in some places surpasses recent hits Magic In The Moonlight, Whatever Works or Vicky, Cristina, Barcelona. When it comes to enduring writer-directors – and now narrator – I’m not convinced that Allen has another masterpiece tucked away behind those glasses, but I’ll happily keep watching him try.