The way things are going for Woody Allen, Rifkin’s Festival may be his last film. He shot it three years ago after being ushered into the Phantom Zone of semi-cancellation and has announced nothing new since. Now the film is skulking into U.S. circulation with almost no publicity budget, in a few theaters plus video-on-demand: a humiliating possible last act for the most acclaimed screenwriter alive.
I’d love to be able to report that the film is good. It isn’t. But there are little glimmers of smart ideas in it, and I’m not just talking about the inspiration that went into what will stand forever as one of the greatest screen credits in cinema history:
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