The familiar opening credits of a Woody Allen film, the simple black-and-white text backed by Dixieland jazz, always gives me a warm feeling. They act as a sort of palate cleanser, washing away whatever baggage you’ve brought into the cinema and letting you know, “This is a Woody Allen movie,” where every frame of film is drenched in his style and verbal wit. It’s for this reason, among others, that his newest, Magic in the Moonlight, is a disappointment. It has the light touch and inoffensiveness of his recent work, but none of his edge or his sharp comic instincts.

Moonlight takes place mostly in 1920s France. It’s the story of a magician (Colin Firth) trying to defraud a self-proclaimed spiritual medium (Emma Stone). Firth and Stone, two actors I love, do what they can with the material, but there’s not much to be done. The script pleasantly, dutifully goes exactly where it’s expected to, with none of the artistic flourish or comedic agility that make even his recent middling pictures (Midnight in Paris, Vicky Cristina Barcelona) essential viewing. It feels like a comedy from the ’40s; not one of those great Cary Grant screwball comedies that are still sought out today, but one of the lesser, written-by-committee Cary Grant comedies that airs on TCM between those better movies. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy those movies too, but the phrase “written-by-committee” shouldn’t apply to a Woody Allen movie.

The movie is far from bad. The set design and costumes are gorgeous and feel authentic to the period. The soundtrack is sweet and charming. As I said, pretty much everything here is charming and inoffensive. But is it unreasonable to ask more of a director who’s made some of the best romantic comedies ever? I don’t think so.

Published in Volume 68, Number 29 of The Uniter (August 5, 2014)