Woody Allen was a screamingly funny stand-up comedian. His shtick was that of an unaffected loner who shrugged off the bullshit of the world around him.
As the years went on he became a successful filmmaker. And one wondered about his Garbo-esque vanting to be alone and free from celebrity scrutiny. As New York magazine once noted, how did that stance mesh with driving around New York City in a white Rolls-Royce? Or, as I observed to myself, with occupying a humongously-priced courtside seat at New York Knicks basketball games?
It became clear over the years—at least to me(1)—that he was far from unaffected and certainly a bullshitter. And he admits this in his new book:
“I have no insights, no lofty thoughts, no understanding of most poems that do not begin, ‘Roses are red, violets are blue,’” he writes. “What I do have, however, is a pair of black-rimmed glasses, and I propose that it is these specs, combined with a flair for appropriating snippets from erudite sources too deep for me to grasp but which can be utilized in my work to give the deceptive impression of knowing more than I do that keeps this fairy tale afloat.”(2)
That is something that I had always suspected; underneath the intellectual pose was no substance. What he was able to do was to attract an audience of similar poseurs, who pronounced shibboleth correctly and so were safe in the bosom of the church of Woody Allen.
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Since the autobiography was unceremoniously slipped into the bookworld last week, there have been few reviews out so far (you could count them on one hand, less a finger or two). Talya Zax in the Forward is very astute in her review (for which clearsightedness, she gets blasted by Allenistas in the comments):
He’s the sole star of his own sympathies, describing his friends, family and enemies exclusively by how their actions and feelings impact him, and never trying to understand or empathize with them.(3)
I guess I appreciate her review because she echoes my observations in the previous blog post about Allen’s solipsistic self-centeredness.
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Some other points I have gleaned from the reviews:
Allen engages in a screw-and-tell session, listing actresses and others he has bedded. The shlemiel as superstud seems to be the theme.Women are objectified, as Dwight Garner notes in the Times review:
Nearly every time a woman is mentioned, there’s a gratuitous pronouncement on her looks. Early on, he chases “delectable bohemian little kumquats” in New York City. While in London filming “Casino Royale” (1967), a James Bond spoof, he writes, “one could stroll on the Kings Road and pick up the most adorable birds in their miniskirts.” Birds? I kept waiting for him to sail to Australia to scoop up a basket of “Sheilas.”
Then there are the Mia-wars. I won’t attempt to place myself in the attic in Connecticut, where something or nothing happened between Allen and seven-year-old Dylan Farrow. However, Allen’s dealing with the Mia issues comes across as crazed as the hinged ravings of internet conspiracists. Again Garner:
[Allen] broaches the idea that Farrow may have slept with a state judge and a state attorney in order to try and influence their opinions during a custody battle. . . . Allen suggests that [their son] Ronan was groomed by Farrow to despise him. He alleges that Farrow had Ronan undergo cosmetic surgery to add a few inches to his height, which required the breaking and rebreaking of his legs.
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Allen near the end of the book writes,
Not believing in a hereafter, I really can’t see any practical difference if people remember me as a film director or a pedophile or at all. All that I ask is my ashes be scattered close to a pharmacy.”
Not very funny(4)—as he once was as a stand-up comedian.
But then again, as his life has proven, he’s not a stand-up guy.
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(1) I have written about Allen before:
https://drnormalvision.blogspot.com/2018/02/the-church-of-woody-allen.html
(2) The first line of his autobiography reads in part, “Like Holden [Caulfield], I don’t feel like going into all that David Copperfield kind of crap. . . .” He can’t do better than to identify with a teenager?
(4) I must admit that while early on I found Allen’s comedy act hilarious, I was disappointed with his writing, where he seemed believe that silly non sequiturs equaled funny.
