Vincent Prince’s review published on Letterboxd:
The Woodman's Mulholland Drive in terms of being the exact threshold where the laurels of self-parody begin to show, and the auteur gleefully rests on them for all the world to see. The establishing shot-tilt/pan-long take setup that would enable the latest of late style blooms here, but Carlo Di Palma seems more up to the task than mid-brain death Storaro would prove to be.
In another manner, his Blood on the Tracks — a deeply autobiographical work hinting at the ugliness within with the auteur denying any self-identification. The ghosts of: Andre Previn and Mia's affair, Woody's anxiety on siring Ronan Farrow, the strain of Connecticut homes, co-parenting from separate apartments as good friends rather than lovers, and the troubled heredity of the Farrow family tree all make an appearance.
One minor demurral — there's a reason most Allen fans seem to gravitate to him during adolescence and never let go, because the man himself has no real verisimilitude on how the adult world works (Caine's "respected financial advisor" ranks among the fakest renderings in all of cinema), and the only characters with any real interiority his self-inserts.
Now in spite of all this hating, the elemental pleasures of Diane Weist delivering Allen dialogue, Mia Farrow's sorrow-filled eyes, and the ghost of Allen not being to take his own advice make for a film to be enjoyed by the hardened cineaste as much as your mother.