Movie Reviews

Sony Pictures Classics

Review in a Hurry: Whatever Works is another inconsequential Woody Allen film about an older man (Larry David) falling in love with a dangerously young woman (Evan Rachel Wood). It has some trademark Woody pith and romance but nothing new to be shared or remembered.

The Bigger Picture: It sounds like an ideal fit: Woody, the cherished god of  neurosis, pairs up with Larry, the king of hand-wringing angst, in a comedy about...an angsty, neurotic old guy! That guy is named Boris, and he's a genius. He will tell you so. Boris is a retired theorist who can't find happiness because the universe is indifferent. When a syrupy-sweet runaway charms her way into his life, their quirky personalities get tied up in a romantic tangle. The setup is classic Woody. Unfortunately, the self-deprecation, sidewalk philosophizing and cunning chutzpah that have endeared us to both men are absent.

David's smug, self-loathing schtick is funny. When he plays himself, he's a comedy genius, but sadly, he cannot act. He's limited in range and can't get his mouth around Boris' grandiose speeches and insults. Instead of David's usual improvisational dexterity, there's an over-rehearsed, hollow delivery to each line.

To make matters worse, Evan Rachel Wood is a shonda! Portraying the naive nymphet from Dixie, Wood goes totally over the top. Her continuous hair twirling and "gee, ain't I sweet?" shoulder shrugs are unnerving overkill. Everything about her performance is unnatural and amateur.

Then we come to Allen. It's a difficult challenge for Woody to overcome his notorious reputation as both living legend and tabloid fodder to make audience-friendly movies. But he doesn't even try with Whatever Works. It's just another Allen film born of habit rather than inspiration. The script is too cutesy and shallow to gain any traction as all the characters scuttle away from Allen's luminous spotlight of self-analysis.

Both Allen and David have made careers out of characters cultivated from their own personalities. Here, they both avoided having to measure up to their outsize personas because the story enabled them to stay on the sidelines. And therein lies the fatal flaw of Woody Allen's Whatever Works. It lacks what both men do best: hate for themselves.

The 180—a Second Opinion: Look, it's Woody! Allen operating at 40 percent is still a whole lot better than half of the big budget nonstarters going with all pistons firing, you feel me?