Alice (1990)

Alice is Woody Allen in his most airy, romantic mode: a Manhattan fable where midlife restlessness is treated not with cynicism, but with a pinch of magic and a surprisingly tender heart. Mia Farrow gives one of those performances that feels both feather-light and quietly devastating, turning a pampered socialite’s “backache” into a soulful wake-up call as enchanted herbs nudge her toward desire, guilt, and self-discovery. The film glides on smart, tightly wound writing and gentle comedy, with a warm, whimsical vibe that makes the fantasies feel like emotional truths rather than gimmicks. It may not satisfy viewers who want hard-edged drama or Allen at his most biting, but if you’re in the mood for something funny, touching, and unexpectedly sincere, Alice is a lovely little spell.

Alice is trying to be a light, modern-day fairy tale about a privileged woman using “magic” as a shortcut to self-knowledge, with Woody Allen aiming for whimsy over realism. When it works, Mia Farrow sells the wide-eyed confusion and the film has a few genuinely charming, New York–flavored comedic beats. But a lot of it feels airy and thin—more like a string of cute ideas (invisibility, love potions, dream therapy) than a story that builds to anything emotionally satisfying, and the romance/drama stakes can seem oddly muted. If you want sharp character depth or a plot with real momentum, this may feel like pleasant background noise; if you’re in the mood for a gentle, slightly silly fable about midlife longing and guilt, it’s an easy watch.