Vicky Cristina Barcelona

The narrator alone would have us believe that “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” is a comedy- and the first twenty minutes appear to be a glorious send-up of Woody Allen by Woody Allen. But something does not connect, even in these first scenes, between the dead stares of the two beautiful, youthful heroines and the unrelenting overflow of chatty and comical soundbites. Allen plays both sides of the cinematic/dramatic coin- not trusting us to simply watch the screen without micro-managing our observations and response, and tipping his hat that, perhaps, the narrator doth protest too much. The all-too-familiar too-true-to-life stereotypes that haunt all of Allen’s films must be constantly re-packaged with a barker’s sleight of tongue.

Vicky and Cristina, collegiate buddies with two months to kill set their sights on Barcelona, staying at the home of a distant relative, Judy, and her hedge fund husband, Mark. Vicky, the dark, serious scholarly one- engaged to be married- turns out (surprise!) to fall for the suave native artist. Mums the word as Cristina, the capricious blond- uninformed on all levels, including her best friend’s outré caprice- beds and eventually moves in with same suave native artist, Juan Antonio. Soon his ex-wife, Maria Elena, shows up as a caricature of creativity and danger.

A totally unexpected and creatively productive ménage a trois ensues at the artist’s very artistic abode until, predictably, Cristina’s inner alarm goes off, unilaterally signaling the end of their joint artistic harmony- her tank is full, time to drive on. The Europeans are hurt, outraged and dismayed and can only revert to their historic and histrionic bickering. The Europeans cannot find fulfillment among themselves; they can remember and recognize something they can no longer produce.

Meanwhile Judy, the Barcelona surrogate Mom/hostess is revealed to be having an affair, unhappy and somehow unfulfilled in her marriage to the older model of Vicky’s fiancé. Vicky confides her secret and feelings for Juan Antonio to Judy, who tries to warn the younger woman away from the fate she continues to embrace. Too late for me, she laments, but not for Vicky. The possible truth of this view is lost in the attractively deep cushion of very good upholstery.

Really, Vicky’s plans for an elaborate social wedding in the Fall and the house in Bedford Hills need not be perturbed by finding out not only that she may not love the man she’s marrying, but that she may not even know what love is.

Cristina returns from a successful quick side trip to France intended to shake off the last effects of her multi-valent/partnered romance with the handsome European Art couple. Vicky finally tells Cristina of her single night of fallen love. Cristina reveals just how little affected she is from her great experience with Juan Antonio and Maria Elena by professing that, had she only known, she would gladly have stood aside for her best friend, as if her entire experience were little more in substance and meaning than another azure cashmere cardigan on sale at Bergdorf’s.

In the almost cluelessly unhappy world of “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” the narrator never shuts up; unrelenting good cheer wears away the fragile remnants of love and courage, like a cruel partner who giggles at the exact moment that wordlessly indicates you are, at best, having sex, not making love. Nothing is strong enough to break through or counter the lethargy of status quo and style; no encounter or revelation need interfere with habit, one’s preferred self-image or any long-booked social calendar.

This nightmare of McLuhanesque socially appropriate “traffic flow” cannot rightly be called tragic, for no one is awake or responsive to life; no one actually exercises choice; no one admits to a power greater than their own convenience, will or illusion; no touch leaves an impression; no call makes them stop and turn, irrevocably, into a life uncharted.

Exactly on schedule, as planned, the Americans go home.