Cassandra's Dream, Woody Allen's latest excursion to the dark side of human nature, is good enough that you may wonder why he doesn't just stop making comedies once and for all. Perhaps that's heretical, but it's the view of someone who has accompanied Allen on all his recent follies, The Curse of the Jade Scorpion included, and has too often heard her own laughter die gurgling in her throat from a lack of inspiration. There's nothing remotely funny about Cassandra's Dream, save perhaps that immodest title.
As with his last two films, Match Point and Scoop, Cassandra's Dream takes place in a movie-made London where the picturesque streets can turn into noirish dead ends. A well-matched Ewan McGregor and Colin Farrell play Ian and Terry, brothers in blood and deed. Somewhat flash, with natty suits and a jaunty walk, Ian helps run their father's struggling restaurant; Terry, in turn, works in a garage where the grease creeps under his nails and stays there. Ian dreams of making it big in real estate, while Terry banks on the dog races and the poker table. They're good boys, nice guys, eager to please, fast to smile and as dedicated to each other as to the idea of family.
That idea is put to the cruel test when each brother exceeds his grasp - Ian by sleeping outside his class, Terry by losing large at cards - and both turn to their elusive, wealthy uncle for help. Dropped clumsily into the drama, Uncle Howard (Tom Wilkinson) is a classic deus ex machina who exists simply to push Terry and Ian toward their fates. He doesn't make much sense (he swings into London abruptly), but he doesn't have to; he just has to provide the means for two ordinary men to transform into tragic characters. It's an old story and it fits Allen's pessimism nicely, in part because it's the kind of old story that predates the modern condition and the therapeutic jabber of which he has been so fond.
PHOTO: COURTESY OF SERENITY
Cassandra's Dream owes more to Oedipus Rex than to the Oedipus complex (and something to Claude Chabrol), which doesn't mean that you can't put Ian and Terry on the couch. By all means, do. But the pleasures of this modest film are right on the surface, in the upward curve of McGregor's lips and the reverse lines of Farrell's anguish. Like Allen's instrumental visual style, McGregor's easygoing turn takes time getting used to, partly because, as is almost always the case with this director, the actor seems to have been left to his own devices. But the performance sticks like a knife. It delivers force and feeling, as does Farrell, whose gentleness is seldom used well.
The rest of the cast fares less well, including Wilkinson, who never finds the right pitch for his character or the monstrous fury that his most pivotal scene demands. Allen sets this scene during a rainstorm, which echoes the similarly climactic moment in Match Point, when the secret lovers kiss and set destiny on its brutal path.
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