I am thrilled to have finally gotten to see this film, what with the unfair shunning of all things Woody Allen by the trendier-than-thou PC morality police. (By the way, Woody is innocent!) Anyway, the film has really good writing, with a lot of laugh-out-loud funny lines. Elle Fanning is charm itself and could not be more engaging; Selena Gomez is delightful; Timothee Chalamet is uneven, sometimes being a neurotic character that did not fit him at all and sometimes being interesting and complex. It is a little uncomfortable watching these three very young looking actors drinking, smoking, and talking about sex. The rest of the cast is fine. The only real problem with the movie is that it is shot in a bright palate in high definition, which lacks the warmth and depth of film as it used to be. It is not that it is unattractive, exactly, but that it is hyper clear and flat. It also lacks the beauty of real rain since it is perpetually sunny. I fear that real film is gone and that I will not enjoy the future of movies.

As to the German Blu-Ray, it plays on U.S. players. Subtitles can be turned off with the remote "Subtitles" button; the menu only has the choice of German or English with German Subtitles.

Sometimes Woody Allen has something on his mind. For example, Manhattan, Stardust Memories, Husbands and Wives and Deconstructing Harry left me thinking. This is not really that kind of movie. And sometimes Woody creates imaginative or fantastic plots, as in Midnight in Paris or Purple Rose of Cairo. This is not really that kind of movie, either.

This is a bunch of Woody Allen characters in a bunch of Woody Allen situations, and if you're a Woody Allen fan you'll probably watch for a couple of minutes and have no trouble seeing where all of this is headed.

But man, did I laugh. For me, the experience of this film was something like the experience of Manhattan Murder Mystery. The plot was interesting and kept me paying attention, and then every couple of minutes, in a flash, someone's words would register and I would just burst out in a loud laugh.

It makes the non-Woody-Allen people look at you, puzzled. But there it is.

Perfectly enjoyable. Too bad Amazon cancelled Allen. I hope he made a lot in the settlement.

Really disappointed in myself for not having looked up Woody Allen's history and sexual allegations of his daughter against him. Most of the actors have publicly vowed to donate their salary from the film to RAINN after this was resurfaced and honestly not sure where I missed that in the news. Also disappointed in Amazon for continuing to stream the movie after all. AND if that doesn't convince you, I got through 30 minutes of the movie and honestly don't know how I made it that long as it is dry, completely unrealistic, and really has no point at all. If I could give negative stars for feeling like I've been depraved of my previous time, I would.

Obviously this is an opinion. I love Woody Allen. And to me, this movie is right at the top of his game. I could hear every word uttered in this movie coming out of Woody's mouth, or more specifically, off of the keys from his Olympia typewriter.

The plot is easy to follow, and keeps unfolding until the very end. And of course, the dialogue is where the gusto is. Woody's love for Manhattan is showcased very well in this movie. Definitely worth waiting for. I'm glad it finally got relased to the general public. It's very hard for me to choose "My Favorite" Woody Allen movie, but this one is definitely in the hunt.

A very tired rehash of old Woody Allen themes and characters. I was so looking forward to this and it kind of broke my heart. Feels like he’s filming first drafts of his scripts these days, tossing them off without much care. How I miss his classic touch!

Sometimes there’s no dignity in a director's working too far past his prime. If Charlie Chaplin kept on making movies after “A Countess from Hong Kong,” they would likely have come off as creaky and crudely dated as Woody Allen’s last several films., and just as embarrassing as this one, a disaster on so many levels – the directing, the acting, and especially the writing. This script seems to come from someone too isolated, too old, and too short on actual experience to know how we live today. And Allen certainly doesn’t know how we talk. That’s because Allen isn’t really that inventive a writer; he simply recycles the sentimental plots and characters from the films of his youth. He weaves antique twists and plot points into his scripts like those quaint old jazz tunes that decorate his soundtracks. Every single actor with a speaking part humiliates him or herself in this film. They flay around, delivering Allen’s ghastly, over-written lines and degrade themselves as result. When an actor disappears from the story, as many do, it’s a merciful escape. But the damage is already done. We don’t miss them, and we shudder when a few of them return. Those who must reappear, because the hold the plot together, subject themselves to another round of degradation. Timothee Chalamet, the Woody Allen stand-in here, becomes more reprehensible with each reappearance. But poor Elle Fanning, a remarkably game actor, does the best she can in a role designed to mortify her in every scene. How I despised Woody Allen’s mean-spirited treatment of her character! Nothing about the background of this vacuous dimwit, who somehow made it from arid plains of Arizona to a prestigious private college in Upstate New York, makes psychological or even sociological sense. Allen wants us to share in his revulsion towards the character, but he overreaches to such a bullying extent that I was actually pulling for her throughout.

Allen has famously made a few films in Europe, but travel hasn't broadened his sensibilities or made him any more of an artist. His well-publicized confinement to his Manhattan home base has only deepened and made off-putting his New York chauvinism. His script here never wastes an opportunity to say something disparaging about Arizona or any community beyond his own shrinking society. Snobbery can be forgiven, even pleasing, if it’s delivered with conspiratorial wit. But there is no real wit in these anti-rube jabs – just oafish bigotry. And old age seems to have increased Allen’s bitterness towards hyper-Wasp characters, particularly women, maybe because he knows them only as the tony types who appeared to him in the movies of his youth. In my mind, Cherry Jones, playing Chalamet’s ultra-patrician mother, will never recover from that disastrously hokey self-disclosure scene with her son. It is designed to provide the Chalamet character with a bump to his emotional development. But her revelation is the kind of plot twist that only the dullest or most derivative imagination could come up with, the kind that gets a callow student author laughed out of a writer’s workshop.

Allen is at his best in interviews, where he is shockingly honest and accurate about his achievements. By his own admission, whatever ambitions he sought as a filmmaker remained far from fulfilled in even his best reviewed films. Despite this, I’ve enjoyed many of his pictures and revisit them often. But I felt no joy in this one and take no pleasure in acknowledging that this charmless and inept film has convinced me that Woody Allen is a filmmaker in serious decline – too old, too out of touch with life, and perhaps too bitter to produce anything humorous, fresh, or believable.
Chaplin knew what to do when he reached this point. And it saved him from further humiliation and preserved his legacy. But with “Rainy Day in New York,” and a few before it, Allen has gone beneath his nadir. Whatever legacy he earned may be well past preserving.

The light you'll find during a rainy day in New York is gorgeous and varied, from time of day, time of year, location -- the view from the bus heading downtown toward Times Square is a whole different kind of amazing than the light in Central Park during a hastened dusk, but amazing, just the same. If anyone, ANYONE, should capture this, you'd say it's Woody Allen. So imagine how I feel about cab conversations on a rainy day with sun coming in the windows and, what, someone with a union card hitting the cab with a hose spray?

There are some bright spots here and there, but I feel that the heart, not the mind, has gone out of Allen's work, and that's what infuriates me. He's been put through a hell he didn't deserve, he has been unjustly targeted by a sick mob that makes the bunch from Frankenstein look like a Friendship Day parade, and it has taken its toll. I find the performances here a little uneven, a little cartoony, in places, playing to stereotypes at times instead of flesh and blood, but God bless each and every one of them for thinking for themselves and working with whom they want to work, despite the "woke" pitchforks and heads that spin on their necks and spew kombucha.

I would recommend, though, that anyone interested in Allen and his oeuvre see this, when you have an artist with an estimable body of work, everything is worth seeing and considering. It's what intelligent, educated people do, how they learn, how they advance a culture. We also need a vaccine against savage ignorance, and unlike others, this one is within the grasp of every individual, should they choose to do so. Choose to do so.