Woody Allen cranks out another formulaic interweave of romantic crushes, with old jazz on the soundtrack to supply some artificial gaiety and wooing scenes that play like an old man's masturbation fantasies. After a 40-year marriage falls apart, the wife (Gemma Jones) becomes enthralled by a fortune teller and the husband (Anthony Hopkins) by a crass hooker (Lucy Punch, the movie's sole bright spot); meanwhile, their daughter (Naomi Watts) pines for her gallery owner boss (Antonio Banderas) and her washed-up novelist husband (Josh Brolin) covets the Indian woman (Freida Pinto) who undresses in the bedroom window across from his. The paltry theme is that we can't predict the future, but I spent part of the time calculating how many more feeble movies Allen will make, based on his productivity rate (one per year), his batting average (four duds for every success), his current age (74), and his father's longevity (Martin Konigsberg lived to be 100). Are you ready for 20 more remakes of Manhattan?
By J.R. Jones