In the first half of the film especially, we watch Branagh talk and act like a Woody marionette dangling on the director's strings (and have to try hard not to pay attention to that man behind the curtain). The effort is made more bearable by a strong supporting cast, including Melanie Griffith as the kind of celebrity that Monica Lewinski longs to be, Bebe Neuwirth as a hooker who turns out to be less in control than she pretends to be, Joe Mantegna as an unbelievably decent male, and Michael Lerner as a plastic surgeon, amusingly named "Dr. Lupus." Leonardo DiCaprio, of course, the current epitome of the young male Celebrity, is also here, playing a thoroughly nasty and self-obsessed punk. For some reason, his verbal performance here is more believable than anything he's said in all his other films put together. The standout performance of the film, though, comes from Judy Davis as Simon's castoff first wife whose quest for self-realization takes up almost as much screen time as Simon himself. In fact, Davis is so good in the role that the quality of her performance may not be apparent.

The doubling effect of watching Branagh/Woody/Simon, though, is lessened--and the film strengthened--in the second half, as a complex handling of time reveals the origins of the breakup of his marriage, clarifying the course of this Putz's Progress and rounding his character more fully. (Besides the fact that Davis sometimes sounds like Louise Lasser, Charlize Theron plays a model with a Mia-pixie haircut.) If the underrated STARDUST MEMORIES was Allen's attempt to remake 8 1/2, CELEBRITY aims to be his LA DOLCE VITA, as seen by Ingmar Bergman and Groucho Marx. (Almost literally, in the case of the former film, since the cinematographer is none other than Bergman's alter-eye, Sven Nikvist.)

But that's the film's other problem. Fellini saw celebrity-itis and rise of the Beautiful People more clearly than just about anyone else at the time, more than thirty years ago. And after Andy Warhol gave the disease its own catch-phrase, what is left to be said? Fellini had his own weaknesses, but at least he was an original. Although it is far from being the worst of Allen's films, CELEBRITY finally seems like an exercise that justifies the very thing it condemns.

The film begins with a man angrily stalking out his village, willing to leave fields, friends and neighbors behind. The region is in the midst of a drought, the goats are dying of thirst, and village is battling village for the little water that is not controlled by the French landlords. Eventually, World War II drags the colonized into the colonizer's war (after a certain amount of confusion about whether they are to be Vichy or "Free" French). But fighting for freedom is no guarantee that everyone will get to be free after the war. The struggle against the colonizer begins in earnest and after much suffering, the country is finally free.

The film's epic ambition is given form and focus by two characters--the man who left his village and ultimately becomes a rebel leader and the the "madman" who preaches to the dead at the local cemetary, exhorting them to rise up and come to life. There are overtones of the story of Moses in both characters--one causing the death of an overseer, the other getting to see, but not be in, the Promised Land. There are also remarkable parallels, especially through the madman Miloud, with Haile Gerima's ETHIOPIA 3000, which was made in the same year. But it is the film's fragmented narrative, masterful structure of cinematography and remarkable use of color that give it special interest. Although I certainly can't say that I understood many of its nuances, it was a treat to be able to view and discuss it.

Some of the characters are played compassionately and with grace by their actors--Watson, Turturro, Hank Azaria (as Blitzstein), and even Murray stand out. Among the real-life artists portrayed, though, only Ruben Blades as Diego Rivera evens suggests some of the artist's complexity and power. Others performances--John Carpenter's Hearst, Joan Cusak's repressed right-winger, and even Cary Elwes' John Houseman--are little more than cartoons (although I rather enjoyed Vanessa Redgrave's culture-vulture society dame). Worst of all is the portrayal of Orson Welles. While Robbins is under no obligation to be worshipful, Angus MacFayden (who was rather good as Robert the Bruce in BRAVEHEART) is simply terrible in a terribly written role. There is no hint of Welles' charisma and often self-serving charm, his genuine passion for art, theater and progessive politics, or even his mesmerizing voice--let alone his talent. This Welles struts and frets his hour on and off the stage and is a mere sideshow to the rest of the scene. In fact, this may be the single worst performance that I can recall seeing in quite a long time.

Robbins is a committed filmmaker, and there are too few of those on the American scene. It's bad enough that his only real competition is Oliver Stone; it's worse that Robbins has shown real talent in other films. But while he wants to make his political points with a tendentiousness that makes Eisenstein look subtle, he aims so wide that that he hits nothing. There is no room for subtlety, irony or contradiction in this film. Perhaps the Museum of Modern Art is a front for valorizing an abstract, aestheticist view of art that avoids politics--but it was still the refuge for Picasso's GUERNICA for many years. Perhaps Welles was childish, self-indulgent and boorish--he was also a progressive artist.

Toward the end of the film, we finally see bits of the legendary outlawed performance of Blizstein's musical and do get a sense of the electric charge of the convergence of political bite and raw theater, but it is far too late. Better that Robbins should have stuck to that theme throughout. And even the ending seems hypocritical. The last shot of the theater rising up with Bliztstein's closing song dissolves to an image of the modern Times Square, festooned with the logos of global corporate giants--Coke, Sony, etc. But Times Square has always been as much allied to commerce as to theater, and the final logo of the film is for its distributor--Touchstone Films, a division of Disney, which is also largely responsible for Times Square's "comeback." If Robbins wants to label artists "whores," he has to admit that's been one himself!