Photo courtesy: Sony Pictures Classics

Written by Sommer Rusinski

Folks, I fear Woody has gone soft.

After receiving the coveted Cecil B. DeMille Award for lifetime achievement at the Golden Globes this past January, things went sour for Woody Allen when his daughter Dylan Farrow wrote this public letter alleging that he sexually assaulted her when she was young. Allen wrote a rebuttal, but his reputation had been stained beyond repair.

He needed a comeback. A true cinematic victory. Magic in the Moonlight was not it.

It’s been my experience that when a film starts with Colin Firth in yellowface, you should dip out as soon as possible. Firth stars as Stanley Crawford, a British illusionist living as Wei Ling Soo- a caricature of a Chinese showman…Fu Manchu and all. Crawford is Allen’s quintessential leading man; neurotic, world-weary, and decades older than his love interest.

Crawford is commissioned by an old friend to travel to the French Riviera and debunk the mystery of Sophie Baker (Emma Stone), a young pretty psychic whose talents are quickly captivating the entire South of France. Up until Sophie, Crawford had a flawless track record of invalidating “magic” using logic and rationality. But her charm and wit quickly win him over, causing the old cynic to question everything he knows about his perfectly calculated life.

The film saunters through its 100-minute running time in the style of 1920s France itself; hazy and subdued, and without any real progress. Allen carelessly breezes from scene to scene, making it clear that the aging director shouldn’t be churning out a movie a year anymore. His twists are recycled, his dialogue stale. Even with two A-list actors at the top of their game, the chemistry is forced and the romance is unbelievable.

The film’s only saving grace is the visual beauty of the French Riviera and the 1920s upper-middle class costumes. Although not as aesthetically pleasing as Midnight in Paris, the mise-en-scene is lovely and enchanting, and Allen will probably see a nod in this category come Oscar season.

Once endearing and thought provoking, Allen’s nervous musings on life have become scoff-worthy. While in the theater, I had to physically concentrate on the screen for fear my eyes would roll back in my head too far and become detached. Allen has been Academy Award-nominated 16 times for his screenwriting abilities, and yet Magic in the Moonlight isn’t even remotely on par with the rest of his films.

What happened to the acerbic, biting humor of Manhattan? The heartbreaking character arcs of Annie Hall? Magic in the Moonlight was forgetful at best. I’m usually a cynic like Crawford, but I’m hoping against hope that Woody’s got some more tricks up his sleeve.