Folks, you are reading the autobiography of a misanthropic gangster-loving illiterate; an uncultivated loner who sat in front of a three-way mirror practicing with a deck of cards so he could palm off an ace of spades, render it invisible from any angle, and hustle some pots.
I have watched dozens of Woody Allen’s movies over several decades. I’m a bit of a movie geek myself, but I always thought it is better to understand the artist through his work, and not through critical commentaries, self-serving memoirs or tabloid scandals. There are though several compelling reasons for picking up Allen’s biographical fiction:
- he is a good writer
- he has a sense of humor
- he talks about his movies here
- he is what is called an auteur who often uses his personal experiences in his movies. It’s fun to connect the dots
- he has been in the business for about seven decades, has met everybody and done everything, from stand-up comedy to theater, movie, jazz concerts and even opera
I used the word ‘fiction’ about this book deliberately because, regardless of the entertainment value and the wealth of trivial information from the world of show business, I am still on the fence regarding the author’s self-portrait. I have chosen his confession about hustling precisely because it can be extended beyond party tricks with cards and poker games to the ‘persona’ he constructed for public consumption.
One of the important early revelations, repeated at a couple of other milestones in Allen’s memoir, is the fascination with the imaginary worlds created on the silver screen [or in the pages of a book]
When asked which character in my films is most like me on the screen, you only have to look at Cecilia in The Purple Rose of Cairo.
Asked which movie is his favorite, Allen puts the classic A Tramway Named Desire at the top of his list. There’s a reason for his fascination with Blanche du Bois:
... in real life I am Blanche. Blanche says, “I don’t want reality, I want magic.”
The early chapters in the biography, those about his family, growing up in Bronx, going to school and discovering successively the joys of reading comic books, gangster stories [ The Gangs of New York ], listening to radio plays or to jazz concerts, magic tricks, baseball and vaudeville in his teenage years, are my favorite and the funniest in the book.
All of these passions will endure for a lifetime and will provide material for his writing, for his stand-up routines and for his movie scripts. Central to Allen’s development is ... the Midwood Theater, where I would spend so much of my childhood in flight from reality. . The passage about the moment when you sit down and leave the real world behind resonates strongly with my own passion for the medium:
At last the lights go down and the curtains part and the silver screen lights up with a logo that makes the heart salivate, if I might mix my metaphors, with Pavlovian anticipation. I saw them all, every comedy, any cowboy movie, love story, pirate picture, war film.
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The start of Woody Allen’s professional career is a mix of funny anecdotes, name dropping, fake modesty and a reveal of the real ingredients in his recipe for success: A burning ambition, a capacity to learn from mistakes and a lot of hard work. Some contacts and friends in the business also came in handy in the early years.
So I was learning how to be a writer, and that meant being at the typewriter at nine and hard, even agonizing work and reworking until six.
My advice to young filmmakers who ask me is always: Lay your proboscis on the grindstone. Don’t look up. Work. Enjoy the work. If you don’t enjoy the work, change occupations.
I remained invested in the progression of the young writer through the years, eagerly following Allen from his joke writing days to his years as a stand-up comedian, late night TV shows and eventually to his debut on Broadway and Hollywood, by way of a movie made in Europe [ What’s New Pussycat? ]
I made notes of the important names that helped Allen along, but in the end I decided to leave them out of my review, as I will leave out my notes on his various movie projects. They are important and I plan to eventually consult the book as I rewatch some of these movies, but something happened at about the half-way mark of my journey.
From a lightweight, self-deprecatory and often earnest account of his development as an artist, a man of culture and a hobnobber with celebrities, Woody Allen is suddenly transformed into a vengeful, vitriolic and even cringe worthy cry-baby.
Most readers would have probably known already what is in store, but I didn’t follow his personal life with the same attention I had for his films. Mr. Allen speaks so beautifully about his early romantic relations, about his actresses and girlfriends, about his own shortcomings and yearnings that is was a shock to witness what I can only call character assassination once he meets Mia Farrow.
Suddenly, it feels to me as if the whole book was written just as an excuse to present his own view on the scandal. Allen not only spends an inordinate amount of pages on the subject, but he completely loses his cool, his sense of humor and some of his credibility.
Compare his kind and loving words about Louise Lasser, for example, with the personal attacks and the poisoned barbs launched at Mia.
And I remember exactly where we were when I first realized what love was and what it felt like and finally I got what they mean, the poets, the lyricists. [Lasser]
In all my future writing over the years she remained my blond lady of the sonnets. [Lasser]
Mia browsed for new orphans like one goes through the remaindered bins in a bookstore.
I will not repeat here all the arguments and counter-arguments about events in 1992 that resulted in Allen being accused of child molestation. In this book we get to hear only one voice, that of the accused, and I don’t really know all the relevant facts.
If I was actually on a jury and asked to decide on the merits of the case, I think I would give Woody Allen the benefit of the doubt. I might think he is a creepy little critter, who likes young women barely out of high school, but I don’t buy the child molester image. This is a sort of gut reaction, not necessarily a logical one, but I believe if he was a true predator, there would have been more incidents and more reports over seven decades of being surrounded by some of the most alluring women on the planet. Yet, there is only this one incident laid at his door.
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After spending what felt half of the biography trying to present to the public his case against Mia Farrow, Allen eventually returns to talking about movies and the celebrities he meets. He has some wonderful words to say about Paris, New York, Rome and other places that are dear to him. He has some kind words to say about the actors he works with, the movies and the directors he admires, about his own peculiarities and anxieties.
Yet I felt detached. I couldn’t wash from my mouth the bitter taste of his angry and whining chapters about his conflict with Mia Farrow.
He gets one bonus half-star for keeping my favorite quote for the last page of his memoir. It might also explain his chosen title for the book, and my own ambiguous reaction to most of his films: I love them in the moment, but very few of them have shown staying power.
My biggest regret? Only that I’ve been given millions to make movies, total artistic control, and I never made a great film.