Best days long gone, Part 1: "Blue Jasmine"

BLUE JASMINE (D+) - I've now seen my second Woody Allen movie of the past 24 years, and this one is even worse than the embarrassing "Vicky Cristina Barcelona" (2008). Let's see ... how can we describe it?

Offensive. Sour. Unfunny. Manipulative. Misogynistic. Tone-deaf. Lazy. Out-of-date. Infuriating. Ridiculous. Repetitive. Under-cooked. Over-acted. Embarrassing.

At first, you think the great Cate Blanchett might pull this off, with an assist from the irresistible Sally Hawkins (as Jasmine's step-sister, Ginger). But Blanchett, in her first scene as the fallen Manhattanite -- talking the ear off of a stranger she sat next to on the plane to her new life in San Francisco -- immediately stumbles (the scene is devoid of any real humor or pathos). And, like everything here, it is a sad reminder of the shell that Woody Allen and his comedy and cinema have become.

This movie takes place in an alternate universe of 1940s Hollywood film fantasy as conjured up by a dreadfully out-of-touch old man who is irretrievably detached from reality. Allen's depiction of the tensions and gaps between entitled socialites (East and West Coast) and gruff blue-collar shlubs lacks the depth and sophistication of your typical Three Stooges short.

I was almost incensed that an actress like Cate Blanchett would participate in such a naked hatchet job on humanity. You could hear audience members whispering about how powerful her performance is, but her take on a hysterical female in denial (chugging vodka and constantly fumbling with her Xanax) is cartoonish, because that's how Woody Allen sees it, writes it and directs it. By the end, Blanchett becomes shrill and predictable. I would feel bad for her if she weren't so ... complicit.

The other characters mostly meander. Alec Baldwin looks bored and even frustrated. (There is very little humor (for him or any other actor to chew on), and most attempts at jokes were met with polite chuckles from the mostly elderly audience.) Bobby Cannavale (as Ginger's neanderthal boyfriend) lights up the proceedings when he first appears, but his shtick (be fair, Allen's shtick) quickly gets old. Louis C.K. shows up to represent the "great guy" alternative to Cannavale's lug, but the comedian seems hopelessly adrift. Peter Sarsgaard, as a priss who falls for Jasmine, treads the boards provincially as if he's escaped from an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. Amazingly, Andrew Dice Clay, as Ginger's ex-husband, brings warmth to an under-written role.

The prevalent misogyny is disturbing. Men tell women that they are "pretty" or "stylish" and the gals swoon. That's when the guys aren't flat-out assaulting the poor sisters.

Technically, this is a mess. The flashbacks are clunky. Various characters repeat the same central plot point -- Jasmine let her husband fleece her sister and brother-in-law, and Jasmine ignored her financially struggling sister only to come crawling to her when her own world fell apart -- over and over again. Characters state the obvious, including the fact that Jasmine talks to herself in public (over and over again). Each sister has a final-reel reveal with a lover that should never have survived a first draft. Cameras pan, leading the viewer to expect a revelation, only to be interrupted by a ham-fisted edit.

Any moderate consumer of cinema knows that this is lousy filmmaking. If anyone other than Woody Allen submitted such lukewarm, anachronistic tripe, they would be sent packing to their day job. My curiosity has been satisfied. Woody Allen is still an old creep with no clue about how the real world has functioned since the Carter administration. Why does he continue to get away with it?