Last night Amanda and I saw Blue Jasmine, Woody Allen's latest film. The improbabilities include a State Department official who can afford an 8-figure beach house in Marin County, a plot twist that functions to clear the vision of this putatively intelligent fair-haired Prince of Marin, a rich finance guy whose depravity is unmarred by a single attractive characteristic, and the fact that we were without children at the 5:40 show on a Thursday.
I should mention that the idle rich are set off against grocery girls and auto mechanics in a way that flatters everyone who punches in.
Cate Blanchett, who plays the depraved moneyman's half-duped wife, starred a few years ago as Blanche DuBois in a Broadway production of Streetcar Named Desire, and Blue Jasmine seems like Allen's consciously updated version of the Tennessee Williams play. If one accepts that premise, it seems notable that Blanche arouses one's sympathy. As Allen ages--he's now 77--his movies seem more astringent. It's been awhile since someone advised someone else in (I think) Manhattan to cut people a little slack now and again.
But I was carried along. After about an hour of running time, I remember my pleasure being interrupted by the distinct, distressing thought that Allen's movies generally clock in at about 100 minutes. Blanchett and Andrew Dice Clay (as the first husband of Blanchett's working class sister) are early candidates for Oscars, and there's a pretty good chance that Blue Jasmine is a better movie than whichever one is declared Best Picture.