3.5 stars. Rated R, for profanity, sexual candor and dramatic intensity
By Derrick Bang
Lively philosophical discussions
can be vicarious fun, but — as this film’s title character frequently reminds
us — the theories of Sartre, Nietzsche and Kant don’t hold sway in the real
world of blood, sweat and tears.
And when somebody does take such concepts to heart ...
well, that can be a dangerous thing indeed.
Woody Allen’s newest dramedy is
another of his occasional musings on crime and punishment — with that deliberate
nod to Dostoyevsky — to be placed on a shelf alongside 1989’s Crimes and Misdemeanors and 2005’s Match Point. In each case, we’re
confronted with a character who tries to argue himself into a “just” crime ...
whereupon, as viewers, we’re forced to confront how subsequent events challenge
our own comfort zone.
It’s an unsettling notion,
because we prefer our murderers to be easily identifiable lunatics along the
lines of Charles Manson or Robert Pickton. No surprise, then, that Agatha
Christie based her entire mystery career on the opposite notion: that casual
killers likely live among us, cheerfully interacting with friends and neighbors
on a regular basis.
But the bad guys and gals always
get caught, in a Christie novel. Not necessarily so in real life, or in a Woody
Allen film, where chance and circumstance might allow somebody to get away with
murder. A sobering thought, and even more so Allen’s directorial approach makes
things so light and droll.
Philosophy professor Abe Lucas
(Joaquin Phoenix), emotionally damaged and forever awash in single-malt scotch,
has accepted a summer session post at Braylin, a small East Coast college. He
drags along a cloud of dark despair like a puppy on a leash, barely able to
muster the will to show up for each day’s classes.
He’s a shattered idealist: a
former political activist and impassioned deep thinker, who traveled the world
and tried to help victims in disaster zones ... only to conclude that, for all
his efforts, nothing changed. People continue to suffer and die; evil
governments and corporations continue to aid and abet such misery. So what’s
the point?
There’s also something mildly troubling,
even dangerous, about Abe. This isn’t a jovial, rumpled university rascal along
the lines of Michael Douglas’ Grady Tripp, in the 2000 adaptation of Michael
Chabon’s Wonder Boys. Abe radiates anxiety
like musk; we’re hardly surprised when, at a party, he impulsively seizes a
pistol and horrifies everybody by spinning the chamber and playing Russian
roulette with himself.

