One autumn day in Paris, a struggling writer named Alain buys a lottery ticket for his married lover, Fanny. The purchase is made on impulse; it’s an offhand romantic gesture and a feeble appeal to the fates. The odds are stacked against these ill-starred lovers and their adulterous affair is surely bound for disaster. But the nights are drawing in and the only moment that counts is now. Being a writer, Alain has a tendency to quote poetry. He says, “We all get frozen in ice if we don’t act before winter comes.”
Closing in on his 88th birthday, Woody Allen likewise appears to be running out of time. His creative juices have flatlined, scandal has made him a pariah, and the Venice organisers drew fierce condemnation for even including him on the programme. And yet, undeterred, he’s still rolling the dice on his musing tales about happenstance and happy accidents, relocating to Europe and working with French actors, like a failing gambler who hopes that a new casino might bring a change in his fortunes. Obviously the lotto ticket’s a bust; that was simply too much to ask. The real shock, though, is the film. It turns out to be the best one he’s managed in a decade at least.
