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The cinephile's dilemma of "watcher" versus "doer," on a central gag derived from À Bout de Souffle and revisited in True Romance. The final minutes of Casablanca fill the screen, the camera pulls back to see them reflected on the enraptured Woody Allen's oversized glasses—such beauty is "strictly the movies," in the real world he's a timorous critic freshly dumped by his wife (Susan Anspach). His apartment is strewn with Hollywood memorabilia and aspirin bottles and uncooked TV dinners ("I suck 'em frozen"), getting dressed to go out means waging war against his medicine cabinet and hair dryer. Bogart himself (Jerry Lacy) offers spectral advice, though tough-guy prose dies in the nebbish's mouth: "I love the rain. It washes memories off the sidewalk of life," he intones to the blind date (Jennifer Salt) who promptly asks if he's on anything. So unlucky that even Viva the nympho is offended when he makes a pass at her, he finally finds his Ingrid Bergman in the anxious fashion model (Diane Keaton), with her husband (Tony Roberts) as the triangle's workaholic Paul Henreid. "I'm a disgrace to my sex. I should get a job in an Arabian palace as a eunuch!" A brisk relaxation between Bananas and Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask), with Allen's subjective monologues benefiting from the distance of Herbert Ross' filming. (Pennies from Heaven takes up the main theme.) Annie Hall certainly profits from this San Francisco interlude, a mellower terrain that nevertheless receives the neurotic's stamp of approval as a place where analysts ditch their patients during summer. "A little style" is the ultimate goal, otherwise there's always a joke for the comely nihilist at the Pollock gallery: "What are you doing Saturday night?" "Committing suicide." "About Friday night?" With Joy Bang, Susanne Zenor, and Diana Davila.
--- Fernando F. Croce |