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Diane Keaton and Woody Allen on the quest for love and romance. How much of this is autobiographical eh? |
Director: Woody Allen
Cast: Woody Allen (Alvy Singer), Diane Keaton (Annie Hall),
Tony Roberts (Rob), Carol Kane (Allison Portchnik), Paul Simon (Tony Lacey),
Janet Margolin (Robin), Shelley Duvall (Pam), Christopher Walken (Duane Hall),
Colleen Dewhurst (Mrs. Hall), Donald Symington (Mr. Hall)
Why is love so damned difficult? And, as it is, why do we
keep setting ourselves up for a fall with it? Why are we all such relationship
addicts? These are questions that Woody Allen tackles in Annie Hall, the film that elevated him from comedian to
Oscar-winning cinematic super scribe (he won three Oscars for the film –
Picture, Director and Writer). Does it deserve its reputation? You betcha.
Alvy Singer (Woody Allen) is a neurotic New York comedian
(is it any wonder he was seen as synonymous with Allen himself?), twice
divorced and incapable of maintaining a relationship. He meets Annie Hall
(Diane Keaton, Allen’s ex-girlfriend playing Allen’s character’s eventual
ex-girlfriend, using Keaton’s real name as a character name – confused?) over a
game of mixed doubles tennis, and their immediate chemistry and shared sense of
humour leads to a romantic relationship. Their only problem? Their innate
neurotic self-analysis that stands forever in the way of maintaining a
relationship.
Annie Hall is a
deliriously funny film – I actually think it might be one of the funniest I
have ever seen – with an astounding gag-per-minute hit rate. Allen uses
multiple techniques to deliver gags: commentary, voiceover, celebrity
cameos, an animated interlude, “what they are really saying” subtitles,
flashback, direct to camera address – and the blistering parade of delivery
styles never seems jarring, but ties together perfectly. Large chunks of the film are inspired high-wire dances where a
punch-line is a few beats away, and the film never settles into a style or becomes predictable. So many of the jokes have become so
familiar due to their excellence that it’s almost a shock to see them minted
freshly here – and the fact they all land so effectively is a
tribute to the performers.
In many ways, Annie
Hall is a series of sketches loosely tied together with an overarching plot
line. In fact Alvy’s constant commentary on events (a brilliant playing with
conventional cinematic storytelling form), add to the feeling this is in
some ways an illustrated stand-up routine by a gifted self-deprecating comedian.
The material seems so synonymous with Allen’s personae (and the
characters of Alvy and Annie so close to what we know about the actors who play
them) it’s very easy to see the whole film as auto-biographical. Not that there’s anything wrong with that – particularly as the hit
rate of the gags here is so phenomenally high.
But what makes this film such a classic is that it is more than a collection of excellent
jokes. Allen is also telling a story about romance – or rather or need for
romantic connection, and how easily we can sabotage or undermine this through our own mistakes, errors and (above all) neuroses. Alvy Singer is
almost chronically incapable of embracing happiness and contentment, with every good thing merely an interlude between crises. Annie
is the most promising opportunity he has had for long-term contentment – and
still his neurotic self analysis gets in the way. As such the film is about the
quest for love – and the title Annie Hall
(not the character) is a metaphor for this – to Alvy Annie Hall represents the
perfect relationship, something he (and indeed she as well) will never
accomplish.
The film perfectly captures the dance of first meeting – the
shy, stumbling early conversations of people who are attracted to each other
but are both trying too hard (the subtitles here are a brilliantly funny choice
– we’ve all thought to ourselves “what am I saying?” in that situation!). There
is a wonderfully playful scene where Alvy panics over the cooking of lobsters –
clearly playing up for Annie’s delighted engagement in it, as she photographs
his distress. These photos appear in the background, framed on their wall, as
their relationship breaks up relatively amicably later. At another point, Alvy attempts to
recreate the same moment (same location, lobsters again) with a new girlfriend
– only to be met with unamused, annoyed confusion. It’s a perfect little vignette that
captures the magic of chemistry – and the difficulty of finding it or holding
onto it.
Because what is striking is that Allen allows the
relationship to break apart surprisingly early. Roger Ebert has written about
Annie almost “creeping into” the film – and this is true. She is only briefly
seen in the first 25 minutes (the first third of the film almost!) as the focus
is on Alvy’s discussion of his background and childhood, and his past romantic failings and sense of disconnection from people. Then very swiftly after its establishment, the
relationship is past its prime, with both parties finding it hard to keep the
interest going. The second half of the film follows them amicably drifting
apart – meaning this is probably the most romantic film about a long break-up ever
made.
The film has a beautiful little wistful coda of Alvy and
Annie meeting outside a cinema, each with new partners. In long shot we see
them engage in an animated and engaged conversation while their new partners
look on, nervously smiling. The magic link between them hasn’t faded away, and
their importance to each other, and natural chemistry, hasn’t changed – but,
the film seems to be saying, their natures work against them. It’s one of
several touching moments in the film that demonstrate the heart that underpins
the jokes. After their first break up, Annie calls Alvy round to get rid of a
spider in the bath. He does so with comic incompetence, then in a still medium
shot he comes to Annie in the corner of the frame sitting on the bed. They
reconcile and then embrace tenderly – it’s a beautiful, moving, gag-free
moment, all the more effective as its reality is contrasted with the humour
throughout the rest of the film.
The film is a full of tender and real moments like these in
between the jokes: it’s a nearly perfect balance between
them. The parts are perfectly written for the actors: Allen is so brilliantly
good here as Alvy that the character has essentially become the public persona of Allen (and allegedly his desire to never make a
sequel was linked to his unease with the association between Alvy and
himself). Diane Keaton (her real surname being Hall and her
nickname Annie) also had this part perceived as a loose self portrait (her past
relationship with Allen not helping). Truth told, it’s a very simple part and
Keaton actually has to do very little in the picture beyond react (the focus is
so strongly on Alvy) and deliver the role with charm – but she captures the sense of an era shift, a
woman stuck between transitioning from the hedonistic 60s to the ambitious 80s,
an ambitious free-spirit. The Oscar for the role was generous, but not
undeserved.
For all the film’s emotional understanding and complexity,
it’s the jokes though that you will remember, and they are glorious: Alvy’s schoolfriends
telling us what they are doing now as adults; Alvy’s description of masturbation;
the accident at the cocaine party; Christopher Walken’s monologue on driving;
the puncturing of the pretention of a loud-mouth know-it-all in a cinema queue
– it’s a blistering array of comic genius and it will have you coming back for
more and more. It’s Allen’s most garlanded movie and it’s certainly the best
balance he ever made between “the early funny ones” and his “later serious
ones”. It’s simply shot, but told with heart, feeling and emotional
intelligence and with dynamic, comic wit – it’s one of Allen’s greatest movies.
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