No one’s as bad at reading the room as Woody Allen, a filmmaker who hasn’t made a good movie in about 10 years and who is widely reviled by the entire planet for being a creep. It’s his call; he can make movies if he wants to. That’s his prerogative. But maybe, and I’m spitballing here, maybe he should stop. Just a thought!
If Allen still made decent movies, I don’t know that my first response to most of them would be “retire, you putz”; I’d take them on their merits and continue dumping on Allen as a creep. Simple. But he doesn’t make decent movies, and yet he continues to inflict them on the world, and I can’t for the life of me understand why. At least this one has Gina Gershon.
You can read my full review over at The Playlist.
A Constant Visual Feast 