To Rome with Love (Woody Allen, 2012)

Yet another round in Allen's travelogue series of the world's glamorous cities, as approved by conventional wisdom, once again relies on the crutch of following idly rich American tourists there. This means that hackneyed local stereotypes, free-spirited and passionate without exception, can be played off against their transatlantic bland sounding boards and all the regulation sights can be visited too, which fills up screen time nicely and looks pretty to boot. It has been very important for Allen for decades now to do nothing at all to upset his obedient audience, who only want the cosy slippers of the same thing in a slightly different location every year, and that includes teaching them nothing as well. The devotees must be able to feel secure when a building, spectacle or piece of music comes up that they recognise it. One Italian character here is of course revealed to have hidden talent as an opera singer - it was always going to be either that or an artist of some kind - and naturally it's Nessun Dorma that he blasts out repeatedly.
Allen makes an unwelcome return in front of the camera as well, his peevish twerpishness now way beyond amusing or even tolerable, and the mini-Allens and silly natives that populate the other scenes, which mostly consist of excruciating sex comedy episodes, dutifully recycle the old navel-gazing middle-class amateur philosophy and chewing over of relationships on his behalf. And then of course there's the lack of any interest in the real city with its real people and their problems, which must not be seen, because that would really make the fans uncomfortable. So Rome might as well be Paris, London or Barcelona. Send the little tit to Coventry instead next time, I beg you.

3/10