Flaccid Woody

>> Celebrity joins the ranks of the mediocre

by MATTHEW HAYS

Pity those of us who eagerly await the annual entry by Woody Allen, the die-hard fans who hope that his latest will offer a few clever twists and abundant one-liners and lift us out of the malaise of a bland cinematic season.

Alas, after a few fairly solid films, this year's entry, Celebrity, can only be described as mediocre (at very best). Woody doesn't appear in this film, but it's painfully obvious where his alter-ego rests: with Kenneth Branagh, the Shakespeare buff who here mugs his way through a rather tenuous impersonation of Woody's persona.

Branagh plays a celebrity reporter who follows various famous film types around, profiling them for chichi magazines. He hits on some of his subjects (Melanie Griffith, who ultimately succumbs to administer a blow job), attempts to hawk his own screenplay off on the big-name actors he encounters--he's your average scrupulous journalist, in other words.

He's also a bit of a slime bag. Furthering the less-than-charming infidel schtick from Deconstructing Harry, Branagh two-times throughout Celebrity, taking Woody's self-loathing streak to new extremes. On the eve of his doting girlfriend moving in to his apartment, Branagh is putting the moves on another babe (during this scene, sweet, romantic music plays in the background--ironic, we hope: does Allen really see this as an endearing romance?).

There are other subplots that also remain fairly lifeless. Judy Davis again plays a neurotic, jilted woman. She's an extremely talented actor, without doubt, but this character has become terribly tired. (To his credit, Woody's screenplay allows her some room for evolution.)

Unlike Woody's other meditation on the nature of fame, Stardust Memories, he doesn't appear to be taking aim at his fans here. Instead, he takes on the celebrities themselves and the bottom-feeding media around them. It's a lofty ambition, but like Robert Altman's Prêt-à-Porter, it's never met. There are no revelations, no epiphanies, no extensive illuminations, very little in the way of thoughtful, intriguing observations about the scene. Hardcore Woodyphiles may argue that the lack of substance in Celebrity is part of Allen's plan, but if it is, it's a rather weak concept. For all its rampant misogyny, Deconstructing Harry was both a funny and intricate film; Celebrity is neither.

But without a doubt the most embarrassing element of Celebrity is Branagh in the lead. He mugs his way through the film's 90-odd minutes, doing a ludicrous, stuttering, hemming and hawing, parroting act of Woody's persona. It is excruciating to watch this actor, who's had moments of brilliance onscreen, reduced to an empty aping routine. This is clearly a role Woody should have tackled himself.

Celebrity opens Friday, November 20