Whatever Works, though intentionally foolish and cartoonish where Vicky Cristina Barcelona is dry and pointed, is so in the same mode as a late-Woody Allen inquiry into the ways we learn (and forget) lessons about love that it almost can’t merit its own review. It’s another film unfairly criticized for its so-called naivete, one which has to be wide-eyed in order reflect Allen’s persistent befuddlement over the mysteries of desire. Whatever Works comes around to an uncynical acceptance of the heart wanting what it wants, with every partner swapped and every pagan pair blessed, a nice clean ending that could be confused with cliche. But as Larry David says on screen, “Sometimes a cliche is the best way to say it.” With Whatever Works shaping up to be ‘Allen’s second consecutive summer hit, it seems like as good a time as any to revisit a post I wrote last year, inspired by negative reviews for the eventually Oscar-winning Vicky.

To be fair: Vicky Cristina Barcelona may not need my defense. Since its debut at Cannes, it has garnered some of the most positive reviews of Woody Allen’s late career. But it’s always with that caveat: it’s the best he’s done for us lately. At this point, it seems like the critical class is expected to disclaim their vitriol or praise, no matter what Allen actually puts on the screen, or which way it swings. Is it good? Well, it’s not as good as Annie Hall, but it’s not bad. Is it bad? Well, it’s not as bad as Anything Else, but it’s not good. As you might have guessed, I think Woody Allen has produced some work over the past 15 years (since the Soon-Yi “scandal”, which more or less dovetailed with the consensus opinion that his “best years” were long behind him) that is worthy of more serious consideration. But even if I didn’t think the movies deserved it, the sheer laziness that the movies seem to inspire in critics would almost give me enough incentive to passionately defend them.

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