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After watching Woody Allen's newest film, I've decided there are three reasons why it's getting rave reviews: (1) Critics love Woody, no matter what the actual quality of the film; (2) it's so rare for a film dealing with actual human beings and emotions to get a wide release that it's being viewed as a welcome contrast to the usual summer blockbuster releases; and (3) the setting is absolutely gorgeous-- Allen makes sure we see plenty of Barcelona's magnificent architecture, and if this film wins any awards it should be for cinematography. So it's got that going for it, plus it has a phenomenal performance from Javier Bardem, so why am I complaining? Because Vicki Cristina Barcelona is an infuriating film, one that fails to use its location as anything but a pretty postcard-picture backdrop for a story of a group of entirely self-absorbed, narcissistic twits with their heads so far up their own asses that they can't even enjoy a threesome without experiencing a bout of existential angst. If ever a movie was simultaneously fascinating and maddening, it's this one.

The plot revolves around the two women named in the title (played, respectively, by Rebecca Hall and Scarlet Johannson), Americans spending the summer in Barcelona-- Vicki's studying the language and Spanish art, while Cristina's a would-be poet and artist who's somewhat directionless in comparison to her seemingly more level-headed friend. Shortly after they arrive, they're approached by Juan Antonio (Bardem), a painter and almost stereotypically slick Lothario with a psychotic ex-wife (Penélope Cruz) and a strong tendency to act like an a*****e, though this doesn't stop both women from falling for him. Vicki is initially relucatant, as she's engaged, but since her husband-to-be (Chris Messina) is a boring stiff, we know she's going to sleep with Juan Antonio soon enough. And thanks to silly plot convolutions, she gets him before Cristina, though it's the latter who moves in with him and develops a complicated relationship with the aforementioned ex-wife, who drops into the story very suddenly and in a way that doesn't feel entirely natural.

Actually, that's a problem with the movie as a whole-- rather than simply letting things develop naturally, Allen introduces little plot contrivances that force the story in a direction that doesn't feel entirely true to the characters he's established. It also has the effect of making them even more obnoxious and egocentric than they were already, especially that moment of existential angst that completely disrupts the relationship between Juan Antonio and Cristina. (I won't say exactly what happens, so as not to spoil the plot, but you'll know the moment I'm talking about when it arrives. Mostly because it comes out of nowhere and makes no ******** sense whatsoever.) There's an even more ludicrously over-the-top moment near the very end, and it's tough for me to decide which of the two scenes was worse. These disruptions are all the more annoying because when Allen just relaxes and lets the story flow naturally from the characters' personalities, it can be compelling. There's a fantastic scene between Cristina, Juan Antonio, and the ex-wife that's so full of unspoken tension and awkwardness that it perpetually threatens to overflow but never quite does; and the early part of the movie feels entirely at ease with itself, making the later missteps all the more perplexing. And as it goes on, it becomes harder and harder to tell if Allen is satirizing these shallow people with their silly emotional crises and their utter detachment from reality and common sense, or if he actually takes them seriously and maybe even feels some sort of identification with their pathetic narcisissm. Since this is one of Woody's serious movies, I'm inclined toward the latter view.

The other aspect of the film I disliked was how totally detached it is from its setting-- sure, Barcelona looks great, and there's a lot of pleasure to be found in just looking at the wonderfully composed shots of the city and especially its architecture, but it never feels as though this story really needs to take place in Spain at all. Even though Juan Antonio and his ex-wife and father are all Spanish, and Juan Antonio's place in the Spanish art world is mentioned several times, we never get much of a sense of why this is important in any way. All his background really contributes is a seductive accent and a lot of overly stereotypical Latin-lover character traits. The Americans, meanwhile, are so absorbed in their own little worlds that they never really interact with the place they're visiting; even when Juan Antonio gives Vicki and Cristina a tour of historic sites early in the film, there's no sense that any of these places mean anything to any of them, even as Juan Antonio goes on about them being meaningful to him. (As for his own art, it's mediocre Jackson Pollack-esque modernism that bears no trace of any national heritage. His ex-wife takes credit for his style and tells Cristina she's a genius; given the samples of their work on display, I wouldn't brag.) Perhaps Allen means to satirize their detachment and their failure to genuinely interact with or understand Barcelona; but if so, it's not evident from the poker-faced way he presents them on screen.

And then there's the infuriating, incessant narration. It's there at the very beginning, and continues almost until the end (the last 15 minutes or so are blissfully narrator-free, but by that point the damage has already been done). While I can understand why Allen would want to clarify the often complicated plot this way, it has the effect of making us wonder why he's telling us so much instead of actually showing it on screen. The narrator babbles on and on about the characters' emotions and relates details of events that aren't actually shown on camera, and it creates the impression that Allen doesn't really trust his cast or even his own script to carry the story and convey these elements in a more direct fashion. It's a barrage, an assault on the audience, and it's entirely unnecessary.

If there's any reason to see Vicki Cristina Barcelona, it's Bardem. His performance here is nearly as mesmerizing as his celebrated role in No Country For Old Men, and he manages the difficult balancing act of showing that Juan Antonio is a total douchebag while still making him likeable, even sympathetic. Johannson and Hall are certainly competent, but they can't even begin to come close to Bardem's passion and intensity. He makes even the minor scenes enjoyable, and while he can't quite redeem Allen's more ridiculous plot conceits, he at least makes them endurable.

One last note: I'm not giving this movie a numerical rating, because there's no way to sum it up that tidily. I liked it and hated it in equal measure, and yet I'd still recommend it in spite of (or maybe even because of) its flaws. It may be an aesthetic failure in many respects, but it's still worth seeing, and giving it any sort of concrete rating would do it a disservice.