Love, actually

Vicky Cristina Barcelona
12A, Nationwide

In Vicky Cristina Barcelona, Woody Allen’s latest film, a character asks in an opening, theme-setting scene: ‘Why is love so hard to define?’ which is daft, really, because as anyone who knows anything about cinema knows and has known since 1970: love means never having to say you’re sorry. What, did Ali MacGraw die for nothing? But here is Woody, and here is all his existential despair and, actually, it’s OK. This is a slight film, a minor Allen film, a bit of a footnote, but it’s warm and engaging and isn’t Matchpoint, Scoop or Cassandra’s Dream, which has to be a mercy. Yes, it’s safe to come out from behind the sofa unless, of course, you are also hiding from the bailiffs, in which case I probably wouldn’t chance it.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona is about Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson), two young Americans who spend a summer in Barcelona — who’d have thought it? — and have very different takes on love, which is good, as it wouldn’t be much of a film otherwise. Vicky is grounded, realistic and already engaged to a dull chap back home; a lawyer intent on whisking her off to a stifling bourgeois life in some place called Westchester. (Hey, are they having yet another go at the suburbs here? Stop bullying the suburbs!) Meanwhile, Cristina is sexually adventurous and believes that love isn’t love unless it involves great passion and, inevitably, some suffering (ask Ali, is all I’m saying). I’m not sure, actually, that Ms Johansson is the most naturally gifted of actresses — she looks merely puzzled for most of the time here — but she does have the most luscious, luminous Monroe-like sensuality; does have a look that screams ‘sex’. I wish I had a look that screamed ‘sex’ but, over the years, have been forced to admit I do not. That said, I think I was once groped on the Tube, but as I didn’t look round I can’t say for sure it wasn’t an umbrella. Alas, it was a very wet day.

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