Woody Allen

For all its failings...[has] enough thoughtfulness, creative energy, and comedic idiosyncracy to outpace any five modern comedies, much less two.

Amounts to little more than an austere and extremely prolonged episode of Alfred Hitchcock Presents.

Two years after Match Point, Allen delivers another London-set murder melodrama, with diminishing returns.

Perhaps the greatest compliment to be paid to Vicky Cristina Barcelona is that it serves as a spot-on emblem of Allen's own life philosophy: cling to the transient pleasures, as you're bound to be let down in the end.

Part of Boris’ worldview seems to be to excuse the movie in which he stars. Try not to overthink it, Allen seems to say: just enjoy it.

Allen has here an interesting idea-that placebos may 'work better' than medicine-to noodle over and ultimately reject; it's just a shame he doesn't entertain us more in the process.

More distressing are Allen’s regressive treatment of women...and an off-putting solipsism.

Blanchett's edgy comic brio, in Jasmine's blithely imperious manner, magically complements her tragic mental fragility and self-defeating desperation.

Nervy and unnerving...arguably the purest expression of Allen's cinematic vision.

At times thuddingly earnest...at times, jazzily, goofily endearing...Turturro's romanticism keeps undercutting the humor before it has a chance to get satisfyingly irreverent. Call it comoedia interruptus.

While it's not unpleasant, this Magic disappointingly fails to capture the imagination.

[A] ridiculously entertaining nostalgia exercise...Radio Days emerged from a highly fertile period for [Woody] Allen, and the film bubbles with creativity and Allen hallmarks.

Pure mid-period Allen, a muscle-stretching ensemble comedy with dramatic undertones and playful philosophical musings...Allen's characters ponder the permeable divide between lust and love, and the meanings of sexual intercourse...