Maybe it’s my monogamous relationship and its mores getting in the way, but I’m still trying to figure out Woody Allen’s “Vicky Cristina Barcelona.”

Written and directed by the distinctive actor, playwright, comedian and sometimes-musician, it’s the latest in a string of movies filmed not in his native New York but overseas–allowing his fans some fresh air, and perhaps a perspective not easily recreated on the streets of the Big Apple à la “Annie Hall.”

This time out, Allen opens his lens to Barcelona, capturing the music and culture that make the Spanish countryside so exotic. The pretty scenery provides the backdrop to a sometimes-funny, sometimes-sad film about two young American women (Rebecca Hall as Vicky; Scarlett Johansson as Cristina) spending their summer in Spain. One’s practical and traditional, the other is spontaneous and noncomformist (it might be spoiling it to say which is which). After meeting a charming Casanova–the overtly hunky Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem)–they travel by plane to Oviedo, where Juan Antonio hopes to engage in a ménage à trois. While it doesn’t go according to plan, the three become romantically entangled, along with Juan Antonio’s combustible ex-wife, Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz).

For Bardem and Cruz, this is no doubt a personal project, and their passion for acting stands out in their homeland just as well as it does in the States. Cruz, in particular, seems to relish her role as the smoldering (and crazy) ex-wife. I suppose it’s little surprise she went home from the Oscars with a statuette for Best Supporting Actress. The rest of the cast play their parts with a natural looseness, yet each is still mostly engaging.

But I’m still having trouble putting my finger on what “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” has to say about human nature, relationships and love. It feels like Allen’s prying the lid up on something more important than his unique style of neurotic humor. Am I reaching for something that’s not there, maybe? I admit, this is my first Allen film–and it might not be the best place to start in becoming acquainted with his style.

Maybe that’s why I found his use of a narrator throughout the film a tad jarring, even unnecessary. Eventually I grew accustomed to it, but its business-like tone made it feel like Joe Friday was reading me the screenplay. And I couldn’t help imagining Allen’s voice in place of Christopher Evan Welch’s; it’s not that Welch does a bad job, but the narration seemed to make more sense when I listened to it in Allen’s voice. Above all, though, why not let the actors, the dialog, the scenery, etc. speak for itself?

Not that it has any bearing on the movie, but I noticed Allen’s ever-so-slightly self-indulgent homage to Oviedo, which honored him in 2002 with the Prince of Asturias Award for his achievements and subsequently erected a life-size statue of the director.

No bonus features with the DVD, but watching talented actors do their thing for 90 minutes is often bonus enough (who needs a bunch of self-explanatory featurettes, anyway?). That’s why “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” stands on its own.