Match Point
Match Point doesn’t feel like a thriller but more like an American’s daydream of posh British life — all tennis, opera, and emotional restraint polished to a mirror shine. Woody Allen sets out to probe luck, ambition, and guilt, but what he really captures is how suffocatingly tidy his version of London is.
Our Irish tennis pro, supposedly climbing the class ladder, already sounds like he was born on the top rung. The accents, the manners, the tailoring — all immaculate, all unbelievable. It’s hard to care about people who treat emotion like a breach of etiquette, or fail to notice when the charm turns quietly murderous.
Match Point wants to be Crime and Punishment, but it plays like Made in Chelsea with a body count — glossy, vacant, and far too polite about the blood on its hands.
Our Irish tennis pro, supposedly climbing the class ladder, already sounds like he was born on the top rung. The accents, the manners, the tailoring — all immaculate, all unbelievable. It’s hard to care about people who treat emotion like a breach of etiquette, or fail to notice when the charm turns quietly murderous.
Match Point wants to be Crime and Punishment, but it plays like Made in Chelsea with a body count — glossy, vacant, and far too polite about the blood on its hands.
Mini Review: Woody Allen’s Match Point feels less like a thriller and more like an American’s fantasy of posh British life — all tennis, opera, and emotional restraint. Jonathan Rhys Meyers’ Irish climber already sounds aristocratic, and the result is coldly elegant but airless. It wants to be Crime and Punishment, yet plays like Made in Chelsea with a body count.
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