Woody Allen Journal

woody ALLEN my only regret in life is that i am not someone else

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Sleeper 1973 Midnight in Paris 2011 Stardust Memories 1980 Love and Death 1975 Take the Money and Run 1969

Broadway Danny Rose 1984 Match Point 2005

Every Thing You Always

Wanted to Know About Sex, But WereAfraid to Ask 1972

Hannah and Her Sisters 1986 Annie Hall 1976 Vicky Cristina Barcelona 2008 Manhattan 1979

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O Her贸i do Ano 2000, 1973

Debut

1973

Running Time

99 min

Cathegory

Comedy | Science Fiction

Sleeper

Country Debut

United States of America

Sleeper is a 1973 futuristic comic science fiction film, written by Woody Allen and Marshall Brickman, and directed by Allen. m

Miles Monroe (Woody Allen), a jazz musician and owner of the ‘Happy Carrot’ Health-Food store in 1973, is subjected tocryopreservation without his consent, and not revived for 200 years. The scientists who revive him are members of a rebellion: 22nd-century America seems to be a police state ruled by a dictator about to implement a secret plan known as the “Aires Project”. The rebels hope to use Miles as a spy to infiltrate the Aires Project, because he is the only member of this society without a known biometric identity.

The authorities discover the scientists’ project, and arrest them. Miles escapes by disguising himself as a robot, and goes to work as a butler in the house of socialite Luna Schlosser (Diane Keaton).

When Luna decides to have his head replaced with something more “aesthetically pleasing,” Miles reveals his true identity to her; whereupon Luna threatens to give Miles to the authorities. In response, he kidnaps her and goes on the run, searching for the Aires Project.

Miles and Luna fall in love; but Miles is captured and brainwashed into a complacent member of the society, while Luna joins the rebellion. The rebels kidnap Miles and force reverse-brainwashing, whereupon he remembers his past and joins their efforts. Miles becomes jealous when he catches Luna kissing the rebel leader, Erno Windt (John Beck), and she tells him that she believes in free love.

Miles and Luna infiltrate the Aires Project, wherein they quickly learn that the national leader had been killed by a rebel bomb ten months previously. All that survives is his nose. Other members of the Aires Project, mistaking Miles and Luna for doctors, expect them to clone the leader from this single remaining part. Miles steals the nose and “assassinates” it by dropping it in the path of a steamroller.

After escaping, Miles and Luna debate their future together. He tells her that Erno will inevitably become as corrupt as the Leader. Miles and Luna confess their love for one another, but she claims that science has proven men and women cannot have meaningful relationships due to chemical incompatibilities. Miles dismisses this, saying that he does not believe in science, and Luna points out that he does not believe in God or political systems either. Luna asks Miles if there is anything he does believe in, and he responds with the famous line, “Sex and death. Two things that come once in a lifetime. But at least after death you’re not nauseous.”. The film ends as the two embrace. l

“ Sex and death. Two things that come once in a lifetime. But at least after death you’re not nauseous”

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midnight in paris

Meia Noite em Paris, 2011

Debut

2011

Running Time

100 min

Cathegory

Comedy | Romance

Country Debut

United States of America

Midnight in Paris is an American 2011 romantic comedy fantasy film written and directed by Woody Allen. m

Set in Paris, the film follows Gil Pender, a screenwriter, who is forced to confront the shortcomings of his relationship with his materialistic fiancée and their divergent goals, which become increasingly exaggerated as he travels back in time each night at midnight. The movie explores themes of nostalgia and modernism. Gil Pender (Owen Wilson), a successful but creatively unfulfilled Hollywood screenwriter, and his fiancée, Inez (Rachel McAdams), are in Paris, vacationing with Inez’s wealthy, conservative parents. Gil is struggling to finish his first novel, centered around a man who works in a nostalgia shop, but Inez dismisses his ambition as a romantic daydream and encourages him to stick with the more lucrative screenwriting.

While Gil is considering moving to Paris (which he notes, much to the dismay of his fiancée, is at its most beautiful in the rain), Inez is intent on living in Malibu. By chance, they are joined by Inez’s friend Paul (Michael Sheen), a pedantic pseudo-intellectual who speaks with great authority but questionable accuracy on the history and art of the city. This is best revealed when he contradicts a tour guide at the Rodin Museum, and insists his knowledge of Rodin’s relationships is more accurate than that of the tour guide. Inez admires him, but Gil finds him insufferable. One night, Gil gets drunk and becomes lost in the back streets of Paris. At midnight, a 1920s Peugeot Type 176 car draws up beside him, and the passengers—dressed in 1920s clothing—urge him to join them. They go to a party for Jean Cocteau where Gil comes to realize that he has been transported back to the 1920s, an era he idolizes. He encounters Cole Porter, Alice B. Toklas, Josephine Baker, Zelda and F. Scott Fitzgerald (Tom Hiddleston), who take him to meet Ernest Hemingway (Corey Stoll). Hemingway agrees to show Gil’s novel to Gertrude Stein (Kathy Bates), and Gil goes to fetch his manuscript from his hotel. However, as soon as he leaves, he finds he has returned to 2010 and the bar has disappeared. l

the movie explores themes of nostalgia and modernism

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stardust memories

Recordaçþes, 1980 Debut

1980

Running Time

88 min

Cathegory

Comedy | Drama

Country Debut

United States of America

Stardust Memories is a 1980 American comedy-drama film written and directed by Woody Allen and starring Woody Allen m

The film follows famous filmmaker Sandy Bates, who is plagued by fans who prefer his “earlier, funnier movies” to his more recent artistic efforts, while he tries to reconcile his conflicting attraction to two very different women: the earnest, intellectual Daisy and the more maternal Isobel. Meanwhile, he is also haunted by memories of his ex-girlfriend, the unstable Dorrie. The conflict between the maternal, nurturing woman and the earnest, usually younger one, is a recurring theme in Allen’s films. Like many of Allen’s films, Stardust Memories incorporates several jazz recordings including those by such notables as Louis Armstrong, Django Reinhardt, and Chick Webb.

The film’s title alludes to the famous take of “Stardust” recorded in 1931 by Armstrong, wherein the trumpeter sings “oh, memory” three times in succession. However, it is the master take that plays in the movie during the sequence where Sandy is remembering the best moment of his life: looking at Dorrie while listening to Armstrong’s recording of the song.

The film deals with issues regarding religion, God, and philosophy; especially existentialism, psychology, symbolism, wars and politics.

It is also about realism, relationships, and death. It refers to many questions about the meaning of life. It also ruminates on the role that luck plays in life, a theme Allen would revisit in Match Point. The film is about a filmmaker who recalls his life and his loves—the inspirations for his films—while attending a retrospective of his work. Allen considers this to be one of his best films, along with The Purple Rose of Cairo and Match Point.The film is shot in black and white and is reminiscent of Federico Fellini’s 8½ (1963), which it parodies. l

The film deals with issues regarding religion, God, and philosophy

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love and death

Amor e Morte, 1975 Debut

1975

Running Time

85 min

Cathegory

Comedy

Country Debut

United States of America

Allen considered “Love and Death� the funniest film he had made to that time m

When Napoleon (James Tolkan) invades Austria during the Napoleonic Wars, Boris Grushenko (Woody Allen), a coward and pacifist scholar, is forced to enlist in the Russian Army. Desperate and disappointed after hearing the news that Sonja (Diane Keaton), his cousin twice removed, is to wed a herring merchant, he inadvertently becomes a war hero. He returns and marries the recently widowed Sonja, who does not want to marry Boris, but promises him that she will when she thinks that he is about to be killed in a duel. Their marriage is filled with philosophical debates, and no money. Their life together is interrupted when Napoleon invades the Russian Empire. Boris wants to flee but his wife, angered that the invasion will interfere with their plans to start a family that year, conceives a plot to assassinate Napoleon at his headquarters in Moscow. Boris and Sonja debate the matter with some degree of philosophical double-talk, and Boris reluctantly goes along with it. They fail to kill Napoleon and Sonja escapes arrest while Boris is executed, despite being told by a vision that he will be pardoned. Allen shot the film outside of the United States, in France and Hungary, where he had to deal with bad weather, spoiled negatives, food poisoning and physical injuries, as well as multi-lingual crews and extras who had difficulty communicating with each other and with Allen. This made the director swear never to shoot a movie outside the US again.

However, starting twenty-one years later, in 1996 with Everyone Says I Love You, Allen did in fact shoot a number of other movies outside the US. l

They fail to kill Napoleon

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take the money and run

Inimigo PĂşblico, 1969 Debut

1975

Running Time

85 minutos

Cathegory

Comedy | Mockumentary

Country Debut

United States of America

This film is presented as a documentary on the life of an incompetent, petty criminal called Virgil Starkwell. m

d

Filmed in San Francisco and San Quentin State Prison,[3] Take the Money and Run received Golden Laurel nominations for Male Comedy Performance (Woody Allen) and Male New Face (Woody Allen), and a Writers Guild of America Award nomination for Best Comedy Written Directly for the Screen (Woody Allen, Mickey Rose). Virgil Starkwell (Woody Allen) enters a life of crime at a young age. The “plot” traces his crime spree, his first prison term and eventual escape, the birth and growth of his family, as well as his eventual capture at the hands of the FBI. His multiple crimes include stealing a pane of glass from a jewelry store, robbing a pet store and carving bars of soap into guns to escape from jail. He also robs a man who turns out to be his former friend who reveals he is now a cop, and the movie ends with Woody admitting he got 800 years in prison, but “with good behavior, can get that cut in half”. Starkwell grew up in New Jersey, and played the cello (badly) in his town’s marching band. This was the second film directed by Woody Allen, and the first with original footage (after What’s Up, Tiger Lily, which consisted of visuals taken from a Japanese James Bond knockoff). He had originally wanted Jerry Lewis to direct, but when that did not work out, Allen decided to direct it himself. Allen’s decision to become his own director was partially spurred on by the chaotic and uncontrolled filming of Casino Royale (1967), in which he had appeared two years previously. This film marked the first time Allen would perform the triple duties of writing, directing, and acting in a film. Allen initially filmed a downbeat ending in which he was shot to death, courtesy of special effects from A.D. Flowers. Reputedly the lighter ending is due to the influence of Allen’s editor, Ralph Rosenblum, in his first collaboration with Allen.l

This film marked the first time Allen would perform the triple duties of writing

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bROADWAY DANY ROSE

Agente de Broadway, 1984

Debut

1984

Running Time

84 min

Cathegory

Comedy

Country Debut

United States of America

Broadway Danny Rose is a 1984 American black-and-white comedy film written, directed by and starring Woody Allen. m

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y

It was screened out of competition at the 1984 Cannes Film Festival.

A hapless talent manager named Danny Rose, by helping a client, gets dragged into a love triangle involving the mob. His story is told in flashback, an anecdote shared amongst a group of comedians over lunch at New York’s Carnegie Deli.

Rose’s one-man talent agency represents countless untalented entertainers, including washed-up lounge singer Lou Canova (Nick Apollo Forte), whose career is on the rebound.

Lou, who has a wife and three kids, is having an affair with a woman, Tina (Mia Farrow), who had previously dated a gangster. Lou wants her to accompany him to his big gig at the Waldorf Astoria, where he will perform in front of Milton Berle, who could potentially hire him for even bigger things.

At the singer’s insistence, Danny Rose acts as a “beard,” masquerading as Tina’s boyfriend to divert attention from the affair. Tina’s ex-boyfriend is extremely jealous, and believing Tina’s relationship with Danny to be real, he orders a hit on Danny, who finds himself in danger of losing both his client and his life. Danny and Tina narrowly escape, as Danny at gunpoint says Tina’s real boyfriend is one of Danny’s clients who Danny believes is on a cruise for a few weeks.

Danny and Tina escape and show up at the Waldorf to find Lou drunk and unprepared to perform. Danny sobers Lou with a unique concoction that he has come up with over the years; Lou sobers up, and gives a command performance. With a new prestigious talent manager in attendance at the performance, Lou, in front of Tina, fires Danny and hires the new manager. Danny, feeling cheated, goes to the Carnegie Deli where he hears that the client he ratted on to save himself was beaten up by the hit men and is now in the hospital. Danny goes to the hospital to console his client and pays his hospital bills.

Lou, who has left his wife and kids to marry Tina, becomes a success.

Tina, feeling guilty for not sticking up for Danny, is depressed and they eventually split up. It is now Thanksgiving and Danny is hosting a party with all of his clients there. Tina shows up to the door and apologizes, asking Danny to remember his uncle Sidney’s motto, “acceptance, forgiveness, and love.” At first Danny turns Tina away, but later catches up with her and they appear to make up. Through this shot the voiceover of group of comedians talking about the story is heard. They praise Danny, and say that he was eventually awarded Broadway’s highest honor: a sandwich at Broadway’s best-known deli was named after him. l

who could potentially hire him for ever bigger things

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Introduction

Woody Allen: cinema’s

Since the ‘early, funny’ films, Allen’s subject-matter has matured, but there’s a line of comic genius that runs from Sleeper through to Midnight in Paris. m

great experimentalist

Thomas Hobbes declared that all laughter depends on sudden contempt, that flash of superiority when the other chap slips on the banana skin and we don’t. When we smile, we show our teeth. For this reason he warned against the self-deprecatory gag, for after all who wishes to pull down contempt on himself? No one seems to have told Woody Allen.

Along with Alfred Hitchcock, Allen must be the most recognisable director in the history of cinema. In 1984 an anthology was published devoted to people’s dreams about him. To like his early films is to like him; perhaps the peculiar intimacy of his relationship with the audience stemmed from the fact that he had been a stand-up comedian.

These films maintained that sense of performing to their audience – Annie Hall (1977) is as much about the faux-intimacy of addressing the viewer as is Alfie.

There is nothing more intimate or more immediate than a joke.

Allen knows this all too well, and in Annie Hall he dramatised it, showing the way that jokes establish sympathy with another person; they call for a response – you either get them or you miss them. It’s there in the moment when Alvy Singer (played by Allen) tries to repeat with another woman the laughter he had shared with Annie Hall (Diane Keaton) over their attempts to catch and cook a still- living lobster. We in the audience are free to laugh along or not; if we don’t, then what is at stake is perhaps not just our sympathy with the movie or its director. In his 1970s jeremiad The Culture of Narcissism, Christopher Lasch also worried about Allen’s use of the self-wounding joke. Allen, he asserted, was using humour to defend against the serious. Yet Allen’s wit was always more than that, a pre-emptive strike against one’s own pretensions, but also a bright disruption offering the possibility of insight.

For all these reasons it’s hard not to approach Allen’s films biographically. The man on screen was always a persona, of course, and yet the works seemed like fragments of a great confession: regarding Annie Hall, Allen and Keaton had been lovers (her real name is Diane Hall); Radio Days (1987) is slantwise memoir. It’s symptomatic that so often when Allen imagines a character writing, what they produce is part autobiographical fiction, part wish- fulfilment. For me, as an adolescent in the 1980s, Allen’s films opened a door to sophistication – not that alluring knowingness of defeat that permeates a movie like The Third Man, but a world of dining out, love affairs and cultural consumption. The first time I heard of the possibility that someone could enter psychoanalysis was through Woody Allen.

A film such as Love and Death (1975) appealed to the teenage me, who had just discovered Russian novels, loved them and yet could find it funny that I loved them, a turn of events that little in my environment allowed for. With Hannah and Her Sisters (1986), it’s hard for me to be objective; it seems so personal to me, it’s sometimes a surprise that other people know it.

Allen has lamented that his work has had no cinematic influence, that he has no followers. If that is true, he may console himself with the certainty that his art has extended into people’s lives. Few of us (hopefully) have had a Scorsese moment or met a Coppola character.

Yet who has never felt that they were, even for a moment, inside a Woody Allen film? And who has never met (or been) a Woody Allen type, neurotic and self-effacing? By engaging with everyday life, he has permeated it.

In the 1970s, Allen looked irreverent, hip, a part of the New Hollywood generation. In an age of “auteurs”, he was the auteur personified, the writer, director and star of his films, active in the editing, choosing the soundtrack, initiating the projects. His modishness stemmed from his films’ willingness to talk about sex; no one noticed that for all the talk his films held back from depicting the act itself.

He was modern enough to seem part of a contemporary social problem, the exemplar of the modern narcissist, the distracted consumer of “relationships”.

But actually even while he was in vogue he was already out of time, an old-fashioned guy aghast at contemporary vulgarity. He was already in his early 40s when Annie Hall came out; his music was Bechet and Duke Ellington, not Hendrix or the Eagles. In an era of unconventionally good-looking leading men, Allen presented the most unlikely romantic hero of all: the balding, bespectacled nebbish up against smouldering Al Pacino. The mood of the times was for anti- heroes, for downbeat rebellion. But by virtue of his ordinariness Allen was the greatest rebel of all, offering a way to be male without being a conventional Hollywood he-man such as Robert De Niro or Jack Nicholson. You can see it in the way the two types drive – in one case Gene Hackman weaving and screaming down a one- way street in The French Connection, and in the other Allen, a man ill at ease with the mechanical environment, sputtering out of Manhattan in Broadway Danny Rose (1984). Both types derived from old movies – for one the Western hero or film-noir tough guy, and in Allen’s case, Bob Hope. Allen was sexual, but no “stud”, sensitive, courteous, and above all both funny and ultimately earnest. One of his great gifts to cinema has been to portray through his own acting and through the casting of men such as Owen Wilson in Midnight in Paris (2011) a decent way to be a man.

There is nothing more intimate or more immediate than a joke

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a ma findi diffe poss tell a

Woody A

Portra

Yet many people hate Allen’s films. Like Bob Dylan, he has lost his form and yet the current work strikes many viewers as a comeback.

More accurately, he has always made some weaker films, had some bad runs (most notably from Scoop in 2006 to Whatever Works in 2009), but he clearly has it in him to produce at every turn in his career vibrant, spirited movies: Midnight in Paris (2011) is possibly a slight work, but is also (in my eyes, at least) perfect.

Some avoid his movies, feeling they know in advance what they’re going to be offered. They can indeed feel, when viewed at a distance, as though they are just more of the same for ever: the older man and the younger woman, the shrinks, the neurotic loser, the architects and writers and theatre people. It can seem as though everything takes place in an insulated Upper East Side world, exploring the travails of an arty, intellectual, comfortably bohemian middle class that hardly exists anymore except in a fossilised state. Even away from New York in a film such as You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger (2010) there was a sense of business as usual. And yet, close up, what strikes us now is both the remarkable consistency of Allen’s vision and the surprising variety of his films: from a modern fable like Zelig (1983) to the science fiction farce of Sleeper (1973), from the fantasy of The Purple Rose of Cairo (1985) to the problem play that is Crimes and Misdemeanours (1989). Above all, his subject-matter has matured as he has.

The early works depict the archetypal young adult about the city, but later he has turned to the problems of middle age and, more recently, old age. It’s possible that his audience has aged with him, and that he means little to most people under 30. I recently showed Annie Hall to a group of 20-year-olds; they concentrated gloomily as though confronted with one of Strindberg’s heavier efforts. Accustomed perhaps to The Hangover and Knocked Up, they even seemed doubtful whether it was a comedy at all. The audience when I saw Midnight in Paris clearly loved it; but at 46, I was one of the youngest people there.

Perhaps Allen now seems a comfortable figure, the official bard of bourgeois Manhattan. In fact, he is one of American cinema’s great experimentalists in narrative, a man devoted to finding out as many different ways as possible to tell a story. The fruits of his years in psychoanalysis are apparent here. Annie Hall tries every means possible to fragment the individual and its story: split-screen scenes, empty frames, black frames, subtitling (to show what people are really thinking), a disembodied soul drifting off during sex, a cartoon version of Woody, confrontations with the younger self, the man up on TV versus the same man on the street.

It’s tightly structured, but the film’s surface is nonetheless non-linear, digressive and self-questioning. If the early films seemed self- obsessed, Allen responded by moving on to the group portrait, creating narratives that were diffused and decentred, with double or even triple plots. Such movies produced a complex image of their social milieu. He is a man immersed in Americana, who has also been sceptical about America. His inclination towards European cinema could account for his perceived lack of success with the American audience. Without his penchant for WC Fields and Mort Sahl, he might have fully been what he almost is, the American Eric Rohmer.

In fact Allen had the enormous gift of creatively loving both Vittorio De Sica and the Marx Brothers, Ingmar Bergman and Born Yesterday.

This complex taste is really the source of all that is best and all that is most contradictory in his films. He favours European slowness, yet his own films show a preference for American rapidity – a cut-to-the-chase rhythm that feels urban, that suggests New York. Sometimes

an devoted to ing out many erent ways as sible to a story

Allen’s

ait

one suspects that, like Graham Greene, he divides his movies into “novels” and “entertainments”. As with Greene, it’s apparent that many of his most profound works belong in the latter category.

At his darkest, he proffers comedy without affirmation, an unrelentingly desolate view of life. In Crimes and Misdemeanours, Lester, the fatuous director of sitcoms (played by Alan Alda), repeats his possibly absurd mantra, “In comedy, things bend, they don’t break”. Yet in several of Allen’s best “comedies”, breaking is precisely what things do. Like Thomas Hardy, he clearly feels that in a world without God life is meaningless; like Hardy, too, there’s a reliance on coincidence and the unlikely accident to twist the plot. Art has loaded the dice. Increasingly his characters are caught up in the machinations of design.

They may invite such contrivance, for after all they so often seek to disrupt their own lives, to break up marital bliss for a risk. In Allen’s comedies, the ordered life is always provisional. Collapse comes with an affair, a mix-up. If order is restored, then that, too, is a makeshift solution. In works such as Crimes and Misdemeanours and Husbands and Wives, there is existential grit in the oyster, an undercurrent of real despair. Such films tell us that life is pretty awful, and we can only hope to get through it the best way we can. Morals are valued, but their efficacy is doubted.

And yet Allen’s jokes don’t always believe in this troubled vision.

For all that he is morose, he cannot be consistently bleak. He tried to be a philosopher, but cheerfulness kept breaking in; he tried to be a clown, but philosophy kept him doubting. Melinda and Melinda (2004) demonstrated his problem: the same story is told twice, once tragically, and once comically; while I can delightedly remember almost every aspect of Will Ferrell’s comic descent into suffering, the tragic part of the film is lost to me. Apparently lacking faith in the essentially comic nature of life, Allen has nonetheless done his most valuable work in comedy. At his best, he tenders a contrary vision of art, as healing illusion, a step into a fantastic world that holds out an antidote to despair. He has deserved something of his reputation for angst, but there are as many films that celebrate the silly. He is a great praiser of things, a lover of cities and cinema. His films are often best understood as tributes to film. That sweet masterpiece, Manhattan Murder Mystery (1993), is Blue Velvet remade by Bob Hope, the dull couple launching themselves into hapless adventure.

His great subject is the illusion offered by art. Watching films, and making films, have offered him – and us – a place of escape. In Hannah and Her Sisters, Woody Allen’s character, Micky Sachs, has his faith in life restored by a Marx Brothers movie; to paraphrase Kenneth Williams, if life is a joke, then we might as well make it a good joke.

Yet the more recent film, You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger, exposes the fatuity of our sustaining illusions – the beauty of the woman in the window opposite, the flattering promises of new age “spirituality”, the thought that death and old age might be evaded with a treadmill and Viagra. The delusions unravel, or not, but are seen through and sent up. In his loveliest films, The Purple Rose of Cairo or Midnight in Paris, there is a gentler unmasking. He acknowledges the glamour of the silver screen and the magnetism of the past. When the films return to the real, they do so honourably, knowing and accepting that, while sometimes disappointing, the best kind of life is the life that actually is.

Allen has never produced a single great masterpiece, no Godfather, no Raging Bull. Instead over the years, he has made a multitude of small things, comic novellas rather than great novels, pleasurable and rewarding works of art that, without trying to be great, have accumulated greatness, remaining tentative and loveable. l

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biography

Woody Allen

IMDb Mini Biography by Michael Castrign

Woody Allen was born on December 1, 1935 in Brooklyn, New York.

As a young boy he became intrigued with magic tricks and playing the clarinet, two hobbies that he continues today. m

nana He broke into show business at 15 years when he started writing jokes for a local paper, receiving $200 a week. He later moved on to write jokes for talk shows but felt that his jokes were being wasted. His agents, Charles Joffe and Jack Rollins, convinced him to start doing stand-up and telling his own jokes. Reluctantly he agreed and, although he initially performed with such fear of the audience that he would cover his ears when they applauded his jokes, he eventually became very successful at stand-up.

After performing on stage for a few years, he was approached to write a script for Warren Beatty to star in: “What’s New Pussycat?” and would also have a moderate role as a character in the film. During production, Woody gave himself more and better lines and left Beatty with less compelling dialogue. Beatty inevitably quit the project and was replaced by Peter Sellers, who demanded all the best lines and more screen-time. It was from this experience that Woody realized that he could not work on a film without complete control over its production.

Woody’s theoretical directorial debut was in “What’s Up, Tiger Lily?”; a Japanese spy flick that he dubbed over with his own comedic dialogue about spies searching for the secret recipe for egg salad. His real directorial debut came the next year in the mockumentary “Take the Money and Run.” He has written, directed and, more often than not, starred in about a film a year ever since, while simultaneously writing more than a dozen plays and several books of comedy.

While best known for his romantic comedies Annie Hall (1977) and Manhattan (1979), Woody has made many transitions in his films throughout the years, transitioning from his “early, funny ones” of “Bananas,” “Love and Death” and “Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex But Were Afraid To Ask;” to his more storied and romantic comedies of “Annie Hall,” “Manhattan” and “Hannah and Her Sisters;” to the Bergmanesque films of “Stardust Memories” and “Interiors;” and then on to the more recent, but varied works of “Crimes and Misdemeanors,” “Husbands and Wives,” “Mighty Aphrodite,” “Celebrity” and “Deconstructing Harry;” and finally to his film of the last decade, which vary from the light comedy of “Scoop,” to the self-destructive darkness of “Match Point” and, most recently, to the cinematically beautiful tale of “Vicky Cristina Barcelona.” l

Woody Allen’s Statua Oviedo, Asturias, Spain

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ntervie

Woody Allen, The

As New Yorkers know, Woody Allen is one of its more ubiquitous citizens—at courtside in Madison Square Garden watching the Knicks, at Michael’s Pub on Monday evenings playing the clarinet, on occasion at Elaine’s Restaurant at his usual table. Yet he could hardly be considered outgoing: shy on acquaintance, he once expressed an intense desire to return to the womb—“anybody’s.” In fact, his career is one of prodigious effort in a number of disciplines—literature, the theater, and motion pictures. “I’m a compulsive worker,” he once said. “What I really like to do best is whatever I’m not doing at the moment.”

Allen’s career in comedy began as a teenager when he submitted jokes to an advertising firm. In 1953, after what he called a “brief abortive year in college,” he left school to become a gag- writer for Garry Moore and Sid Caesar. In the early 1960s, his stand-up routines in the comedy clubs of Greenwich Village gained him considerable recognition, and eventually several television appearances. In 1965, shortly after he produced three successful comedy records, Allen made his debut as an actor and screenwriter in What’s New, Pussycat? His 1969 film, Take the Money and Run, was the first project that he not only wrote and starred in, but directed as well. Though many of his early films (Bananas, Sleeper, Love and Death) were critically acclaimed, it wasn’t until 1977 and the release of Annie Hall, which won four Academy Awards, that Allen was recognized as an extraordinary force in the American cinema.

Fifteen of his motion pictures have appeared since, which works out at almost a movie a year. He has also written several Broadway plays, the most successful of them, Don’t Drink the Water and Play It Again, Sam, were also made into films.

Allen has written three collections of short pieces, many of which first appeared in The New Yorker: Getting Even, Without Feathers, and Side Effects.

The major portion of this interview, much of which was conducted by Michiko Kakutani over dinner at Elaine’s Restaurant, was completed in 1985. Since then, the editors—by correspondence and conversations with Mr. Allen over the phone—have brought it up to date. m

Woody Allen in “Take the Money and Run”

Art of Humor No. 1

Interviewed by Michiko Kakutani Do you think the humorist tends to look at the world in a slightly different way?

Yes. I think if you have a comic perspective, almost anything that happens you tend to put through a comic filter. It’s a way of coping in the short term, but has no long term effect and requires constant, endless renewal. Hence people talk of comics who are “always on.” It’s like constantly drugging your sensibility so you can get by with less pain.

That’s very unique, don’t you think?

It’s one way of dealing with life. People think it’s very hard to be funny but it’s an interesting thing. If you can do it, it’s not hard at all. It would be like if I said to somebody who can draw very well, My God, I could take a pencil and paper all day long and never be able to draw that horse. I can’t do it, and you’ve done it so perfectly. And the other person feels, This is nothing. I’ve been doing this since I was four years old. That’s how you feel about comedy—if you can do it, you know, it’s really nothing. It’s not that the end product is nothing, but the process is simple. Of course, there are just some people that are authentically funny, and some people that are not. It’s a freak of nature.

Who were the writers who made you first want to write?

I remember the first person I ever laughed at while reading was Max Shulman. I was fifteen. I have a couple of old books of his. The one that I found the funniest was The Zebra Derby . . . funny in a broad sort of way, though you have to appreciate the context within which it’s written, since it’s about veterans returning here after World War II, returning to the land of promise. Then I discovered Robert Benchley and S. J. Perelman, two other very funny writers who were truly great masters. I met Perelman at Elaine’s restaurant one night. I came in with Marshall Brickman and a waiter came over and gave me a card.

On the back it said something like, Would love you to come over and join me for a celery tonic. I figured, Oh, it’s some out-of-town tourist, and I threw the card away. About an hour and a half later, someone said, You know, it’s from S. J. Perelman, so I retrieved the card from the floor. It said “S. J. Perelman,” and I raced around to where he was sitting around the corner and we joined him. I’d met him before and to me he was always warm and friendly. I’ve read he could be difficult, but I never saw that side of him.

When did you start writing?

Before I could read. I’d always wanted to write. Before that—I made up tales. I was always creating stories for class. For the most part, I was never as much a fan of comic writers as serious writers. But I found myself able to write in a comic mode, at first directly imitative of Shulman or sometimes of Perelman. In my brief abortive year in college I’d hand in my papers, all of them written in a bad (or good) derivation of Shulman. I had no sense of myself at all.

How did you discover your own voice? Did it happen gradually?

No, it was quite accidental. I had given up writing prose completely and gone into television writing. I wanted to write for the theater and at the same time I was doing a cabaret act as a comedian. One day Playboy magazine asked me to write something for them, because I was an emerging comedian and I wrote this piece on chess. At that time I was almost married—but not quite yet—to Louise Lasser; she read it and said, Gee, I think this is good. You should really send this over to The New Yorker. To me, as to everyone else of my generation, The New Yorker was hallowed ground.

“I had no sense of myself at all” Anyhow, on a lark I did. I was shocked when I got this phone call back saying that if I’d make a few changes, they’d print it. So I went over there and made the few changes, and they ran it. It was a big boost to my confidence. So I figured, Well, I think I’ll write something else for them. The second or third thing I sent to The New Yorker was very Perelmanesque in style. They printed it but comments were that it was dangerously derivative and I agreed. So both The New Yorker and I looked out for that in subsequent pieces that I sent over there. I did finally get further and further away from him. Perelman, of course, was as complex as could be—a very rich kind of humor. As I went on I tried to simplify.

Was this a parallel development to what you were trying to do in your films?

I don’t think of them as parallel. My experience has been that writing for the different mediums are very separate undertakings. Writing for the stage is completely different from writing for film and both are completely different from writing prose. The most demanding is writing prose, I think, because when you’re finished, it’s the end product.

You can’t change it. In a play, it’s far from the end product. The script serves as a vehicle for the actors and director to develop characters.

With films, I just scribble a couple of notes for a scene. You don’t have to do any writing at all, you just have your notes for the scene, which are written with the actors and the camera in mind. The actual script is a necessity for casting and budgeting, but the end product often doesn’t bear much resemblance to the script—at least in my case.

So you would have much more control over something like a novel.

That’s one of its appeals—that you have the control over it. Another great appeal is that when you’re finished you can tear it up and throw it away. Whereas, when you make a movie, you can’t do that. You have to put it out there even if you don’t like it. I might add, the hours are better if you’re a prose writer. It’s much more fun to wake up in the morning, just drift into the next room and be alone and write, than it is to wake up in the morning and have to go shoot a film. Movies are a big demand. It’s a physical job. You’ve got to be someplace, on schedule, on time. And you are dependent on people. I know Norman Mailer said that if he had started his career today he might be in film rather than a novelist. I think films are a younger man’s enterprise. For the most part it’s strenuous. Beyond a certain point, I don’t think I want that exertion; I mean I don’t want to feel that my whole life I’m going to have to wake up at six in the morning, be out of the house at seven so I can be out on some freezing street or some dull meadow shooting.

That’s not all that thrilling. It’s fun to putter around the house, stay home. Tennessee Williams said the annoying thing about plays is that you have to produce them—you can’t just write them and throw them in the drawer. That’s because when you finish writing a script, you’ve transcended it and you want to move on. With a book, you can. So the impulse seems always to be a novelist. It’s a very desirable thing. One thinks about Colette sitting in her Parisian apartment, looking out the window and writing. It’s a very seductive life. Actually, I wrote a first

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draft of a novel in Paris when I was doing Love and Death. I have it at home, all handwritten, lying in my drawer on graph paper—I’ve had it that way for years. I’ve sort of been saving it for when I’m energyless and not able to film anymore. I don’t want to do it while I still have enough vigor to get out there early in the morning and film. It’s a good thing to look forward to a novel. I know one day they’ll either pull the plug on me for filming and say, We don’t want you to do this anymore, or I’ll get tired of doing it.

I hope the novel’s all right. I mean, it’s no great shakes, but it’s a novel, a story that could only be told that way. I’ve thought at times of taking the idea and making it into a play or a film, but oddly it doesn’t work that way. If it works at all, it’s a novel. It happens in the prose.

How did this novel come about? Had you thought about doing it for a long time?

Not really. I started on page one.

It’s an old habit from writing for the stage. I can’t conceive of writing the third act before the first, or a fragment of the second act out of order. The events that occur later—the interaction between characters, the development of the plot—are so dependent on the action that takes place in the beginning. I can’t conceive of doing it out of sequence. I love the classic narrative form in a play. I love it in the novel. I don’t enjoy novels that aren’t basically clear stories. To sit down with Balzac or Tolstoy is, in addition to all else, great entertainment. With a play, when the curtain goes up and people are in garbage cans, I know I may admire the idea cerebrally, but it won’t mean as much to me. I’ve seen Beckett, along with many lesser avant-gardists, and many contemporary plays, and I can say yes, that’s clever and deep but I don’t really care. But when I watch Chekhov or O’Neill—where it’s men and women in human, classic crises—that I like. I know that it’s very unfashionable to say at this time, but things based, for example, on “language”—the clever rhythms of speech—I really don’t care for. I want to hear people speaking plainly if at times poetically. When you see Death of a Salesman or A Streetcar Named Desire you’re interested in the people and you want to see what happens next. When I had an idea for the play I wrote for Lincoln Center—The Floating Lightbulb—I was determined that I was going to write about regular people in a simple situation. I deliberately tried to avoid anything more elaborate than that. In film, oddly enough, I don’t feel as much that way. I’m more amenable in film to distortions of time and abstractions.

A lot of writers find it very hard to get started on the next project, to find an idea they really want to work on . . .

Probably they are casting aside ideas that are as good as the ideas I choose to work on. I’ll think of an idea walking down the street, and I’ll mark it down immediately. And I always want to make it into something. I’ve never had a block. I’m talking within the limits of my abilities. But in my own small way, I’ve had an embarrassment of riches. I’ll have five ideas and I’m dying to do them all. It takes weeks or months where I agonize and obsess over which to do next. I wish sometimes someone would choose for me. If someone said, Do idea number three next, that would be fine. But I have never had any sense of running dry. People always ask me, Do you ever think you’ll wake up one morning and not be funny? That thought would never occur to me—it’s an odd thought and not realistic. Because funny and me are not separate. We’re one. The best time to me is when I’m through with a project and deciding about a new one. That’s because it’s at a period when reality has not yet set in. The idea in your mind’s eye is so wonderful, and you fantasize it in the perfect flash of a second—just beautifully conceived. But then when you have to execute it, it doesn’t come out as you’d fantasized. Production is where the problems begin, where reality starts to set in. As I was saying before,

“Because funny and me are not separate.

We’re one.”

the closest I ever come to realizing the concept is in prose. Most of the things that I’ve written and published, I’ve felt that I executed my original idea pretty much to my satisfaction. But I’ve never, ever felt that, not even close, about anything I’ve written for film or the stage.

I always felt I had such a dazzling idea—where did I go wrong? You go wrong from the first day. Everything’s a compromise. For instance, you’re not going to get Marlon Brando to do your script, you’re going to get someone lesser. The room you see in your mind’s eye is not the room you’re filming in. It’s always a question of high aims, grandiose dreams, great bravado and confidence, and great courage at the typewriter; and then, when I’m in the midst of finishing a picture and everything’s gone horribly wrong and I’ve reedited it and reshot it and tried to fix it, then it’s merely a struggle for survival. You’re happy only to be alive. Gone are all the exalted goals and aims, all the uncompromising notions of a perfect work of art, and you’re just fighting so people won’t storm up the aisles with tar and feathers. With many of my films—almost all—if I’d been able to get on screen what I conceived, they would have been much better pictures. Fortunately, the public doesn’t know about how great the picture played in my head was, so I get away with it.

How do you actually work? What are your tools?

I’ve written on legal pads, hotel stationery, anything I can get my hands on. I have no finickiness about anything like that. I write in hotel rooms, in my house, with other people around, on matchbooks.

I have no problems with it—to the meager limits that I can do it. There have been stories where I’ve just sat down at the typewriter and typed straight through beginning to end. There are some New Yorker pieces I’ve written out in forty minutes time. And there are other things I’ve just struggled and agonized over for weeks and weeks. It’s very haphazard. Take two movies—one movie that was not critically successful was A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy. I wrote that thing in no time.

It just came out in six days —everything in perfect shape. I did it, and it was not well received. Whereas Annie Hall was just endless—totally changing things. There was as much material on the cutting-room floor as there was in the picture—I went back five times to reshoot. And it was well received. On the other hand, the exact opposite has happened to me where I’ve done things that just flowed easily and were very well received. And things I agonized over were not. I’ve found no correlation at all. But, if you can do it, it’s not really very hard . . . nor is it as tremendous an achievement as one who can’t do it thinks. For instance, when I was sixteen years old I got my first job. It was as a comedy writer for an advertising agency in New York. I would come into this advertising agency every single day after school and I would write jokes for them. They would attribute these jokes to their clients and put them in the newspaper columns. I would get on the subway— the train quite crowded—and, straphanging, I’d take out a pencil and by the time I’d gotten out I’d have written forty or fifty jokes . . . fifty jokes a day for years. People would say to me, I don’t believe it— fifty jokes a day and writing them on the train. Believe me, it was no big deal. Whereas I’ll look at someone who can compose a piece of music—I don’t know how they ever begin or end or what! But because I could always write, it was nothing. I could always do it— within my limitations. So it was never hard. I think if I’d had a better education, a better upbringing, and perhaps had a different kind of personality, I might have been an important writer. It’s possible, because I think I have some talent, but never had the interest in it. I grew up without an interest in anything scholarly. I could write, but I had no interest in reading. I only played and watched sports, read comic books; I never read a real novel until I was college age. Just had no interest in it at all. Perhaps if I’d had a different upbringing, I might have gone off in a different direction. Or if the interests of my parents, my friends, and the environment in which I was raised had been more directed towards things I was later responsive to, maybe things would have been different. Maybe I would have been a serious novelist. Or maybe not. But it’s too late, and now I’m just happy I don’t have arthritis.

Can you remember one of the jokes you wrote hanging on a subway strap?

This was typical of the junk I turned out: Kid next to me in school was the son of a gambler—he’d never take his test marks back —he’d let ’em ride on the next test. Now you see why it wasn’t hard to do fifty a day during rush hour.

Agreed. But you mentioned this novel . . .

I’m not sure I have the background and understanding to write a novel. The book that I have been working on, or planning, is amusing but serious, and I’ll see what happens. I’m so uneducated really—so autodidactic. That’s a tricky thing, because there are certain areas the autodidact knows about but there are also great gaps that are really shocking. It comes from not having a structured education. People will send me film scripts or essays or even a page of jokes and they’ll say, Is this anything—is this a short story? Is this a comedy sketch?

They’ll have no idea if it is or isn’t. To a degree, I feel the same way about the world of prose. When I brought something into The New Yorker, I didn’t know what I was standing there with. Their reaction could have been, Oh, this is nothing. You’ve written a lot of words, but this isn’t really anything, or, Young man, this thing is really wonderful. I was happy to accept their judgment of it. If they had said, when I first took those pieces into The New Yorker, We’re sorry, but this isn’t really anything, I would have accepted that. I would have said, Oh really? OK. I would have thrown the stuff away and never batted an eyelash. The one or two things they’ve turned down over the years, they were always so tentative and polite about; they always said, Look, we may publish something else a little too close to this, or something tactful like that. And I always felt, hey— just tear it up, I don’t care. In that sense, I never found writing delicate or sacred. I think that’s what would happen if I finished the novel. If the people I brought it to said, We don’t think this is anything, it would never occur to me to say, You fools. I just don’t know enough. I’m not speaking with the authority of someone like James Joyce who’d read everything and knew more than his critics did. There’s only one or two areas where I feel that kind of security, where I feel my judgment is as good and maybe even better than most people’s judgment. Comedy is one. I feel confident when I’m dealing with things that are funny, whatever the medium.

And I know a lot about New Orleans jazz music even though I’m a poor musician. Poor but dedicated.

Why did you start out writing comedy?

I always enjoyed comedians when I was young. But when I started to read more seriously, I enjoyed more serious writers. I became less interested in comedy then, although I found I could write it. These days I’m not terribly interested in comedy. If I were to list my fifteen favorite films, there would probably be no comedies in there. True, there are some comic films that I think are wonderful. I certainly think that City Lights is great, a number of the Buster Keatons, several Marx Brothers movies. But those are a different kind of comedy—the comedy of comedians in film stands more as a record of the comedians’ work. The films may be weak or silly but the comics were geniuses.

I like Keaton’s films better than Keaton and enjoy Chaplin and The Marx Brothers usually more than the films. But I’m an easy audience.

I laugh easily.

How about Bringing Up Baby?

No, I never liked that. I never found that funny.

Really?

No, I liked Born Yesterday, even though it’s a play made into a film.

Both The Shop Around the Corner and Trouble in Paradise are terrific. A wonderful talking comedy is The White Sheik by Fellini.

What is it that keeps a lighthearted or comic film from being on your list of ten?

Nothing other than personal taste. Someone else might list ten comedies. It’s simply that I enjoy more serious films. When I have the option to see films, I’ll go and see Citizen Kane, The Bicycle Thief, The Grand Illusion, The Seventh Seal, and those kind of pictures.

When you go to see the great classics over again, do you go to see how they’re made, or do you go for the impact that they have on you emotionally?

Usually, I go for enjoyment. Other people who work on my films see

all the technical things happening, and I can’t see them. I still can’t notice the microphone shadow, or the cut that wasn’t good or something. I’m too engrossed in the film itself.

Who have had the greatest influence on your film work?

The biggest influences on me, I guess, have been Bergman and the Marx Brothers. I also have no compunction stealing from Strindberg, Chekhov, Perelman, Moss Hart, Jimmy Cannon, Fellini, and Bob Hope’s writers.

Were you funny as a kid?

Yes, I was an amusing youngster. Incidentally, people always relate that to being raised Jewish. It’s a myth. Many great funnymen were not Jewish: W. C. Fields, Jonathan Winters, Bob Hope, Buster Keaton . . . I never saw any connection between ethnicity or religion or race and humor.

Were you asked to perform at school functions?

I didn’t perform a lot, but I was amusing in class, among friends and teachers.

So it wasn’t the sort of humor that would upset the authorities?

Sometimes it was, yes. My mother was called to school frequently because I was yelling out things in class, quips in class, and because I would hand in compositions that they thought were in poor taste, or too sexual. Many, many times she was called to school.

Why do you think you started writing as a kid?

I think it was just the sheer pleasure of it. It’s like playing with my band now. It’s fun to make music, and it’s fun to write. It’s fun to make stuff up. I would say that if I’d lived in the era before motion pictures, I would have been a writer. I saw Alfred Kazin on television. He was extolling the novel at the expense of film. But I didn’t agree. One is not comparable with the other. He had too much respect for the printed word. Good films are better than bad books, and when they’re both great, they’re great and worthwhile in different ways.

Do you think the pleasures of writing are related to the sense of control art provides?

It’s a wonderful thing to be able to create your own world whenever you want to. Writing is very pleasurable, very seductive, and very therapeutic. Time passes very fast when I’m writing—really fast. I’m puzzling over something, and time just flies by. It’s an exhilarating feeling. How bad can it be? It’s sitting alone with fictional characters. You’re escaping from the world in your own way and that’s fine. Why not?

If you like that solitary aspect of writing, would you miss the collaborative aspect of film if you were to give it up?

One deceptive appeal of being out there with other people is that it gets you away from the job of writing. It’s less lonely. But I like to stay home and write. I’ve always felt that if they told me tomorrow I couldn’t make any more films, that they wouldn’t give me any more money, I would be happy writing for the theater; and if they wouldn’t produce my plays, I’d be happy just writing prose; and if they wouldn’t publish me, I’d still be happy writing and leaving it for future generations. Because if there’s anything of value there, it will live; and if there’s not, better it shouldn’t. That’s one of the nice things about writing, or any art; if the thing’s real, it just lives. All the attendant hoopla about it, the success over it or the critical rejection—none of that really matters. In the end, the thing will survive or not on its own merits. Not that immortality

“I never saw any connection between ethnicity or religion or race and humor”

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via art is any big deal. Truffaut died, and we all felt awful about it, and there were the appropriate eulogies, and his wonderful films live on.

But it’s not much help to Truffaut. So you think to yourself, My work will live on. As I’ve said many times, rather than live on in the hearts and minds of my fellow man, I would rather live on in my apartment.

Still, some artists put such an emphasis on their work, on creating something that will last, that they put it before everything else. That line by Faulkner—“The ‘Ode on a Grecian Urn’ is worth any number of old ladies.”

I hate when art becomes a religion. I feel the opposite. When you start putting a higher value on works of art than people, you’re forfeiting your humanity. There’s a tendency to feel the artist has special privileges, and that anything’s okay if it’s in the service of art. I tried to get into that in Interiors. I always feel the artist is much too revered—it’s not fair and it’s cruel. It’s a nice but fortuitous gift—like a nice voice or being left-handed.

That you can create is a kind of nice accident. It happens to have high value in society, but it’s not as noble an attribute as courage. I find funny and silly the pompous kind of self-important talk about the artist who takes risks. Artistic risks are like show-business risks—laughable. Like casting against type, wow, what danger! Risks are where your life is on the line. The people who took risks against the Nazis or some of the Russian poets who stood up against the state—those people are courageous and brave, and that’s really an achievement.

To be an artist is also an achievement, but you have to keep it in perspective. I’m not trying to undersell art. I think it’s valuable, but I think it’s overly revered. It is a valuable thing, but no more valuable than being a good schoolteacher, or being a good doctor. The problem is that being creative has glamour. People in the business end of film always say, I want to be a producer, but a creative producer. Or a woman I went to school with who said, Oh yes, I married this guy. He’s a plumber but he’s very creative. It’s very important for people to have that credential. Like if he wasn’t creative, he was less.

When you’re writing, do you think about your audience?

Updike, for instance, once said that he liked to think of a young kid in a small Midwestern town finding one of his books on a shelf at a public library.

I’ve always felt that I try to aim as high as I can at the time, not to reach everybody, because I know that I can’t do that, but always to try to stretch myself. I’d like to feel, when I’ve finished a film, that intelligent adults, whether they’re scientists or philosophers, could go in and see it and not come out and feel that it was a total waste of time. That they wouldn’t say, Jesus, what did you get me into? If I went in to see Rambo, I’d say, Oh, God, and then after a few minutes I’d leave. Size of audience is irrelevant to me. The more the better, but not if I have to change my ideas to seduce them.

Film’s not the easiest art form in which to do that; it involves a lot of people, requires a lot of money.

There are certain places like Sweden, where you’re partially state subsidized.

But in the United States, everything’s so damned expensive. It’s not like painting or writing. With a film I have to get millions of dollars—to make even a cheap film. So attached to that is a sense that you can’t get along without a big audience. Therefore it’s a bit of a struggle, but I’ve been lucky—I’ve always had freedom. I’ve been blessed. I’ve had a dream life in film—from my first picture on. It’s been absolute, total freedom down the line. Don’t ask me why. If I decided tomorrow to do a black-and- white film on sixteenth-century religion, I could do it. Of course, if I went in and said, “I’m going to do a film about monads,” they’d say, “Well, we’ll give you this much money to work with.” Whereas if I say, “I’m going to do a big, broad comedy,” they’ll give me more money.

What sort of development do you see in your own work over the years?

“The problem is that being creative has glamour”

I hope for growth, of course. If you look at my first films, they were very broad and sometimes funny. I’ve gotten more human with the stories and sacrificed a tremendous amount of humor, of laughter, for other values that I personally feel are worth making that sacrifice for.

So, a film like The Purple Rose of Cairo or Manhattan will not have as many laughs. But I think they’re more enjoyable. At least to me they are. I would love to continue that— and still try to make some serious things.

Was it Interiors that if anybody laughed during its making you took that part out? Was that so?

Oh no, no, not true. Good story but totally untrue. No, there are never any colorful stories connected with my pictures. I mean, we go in there and work in a kind of grim, businesslike atmosphere and do the films, whether they’re comedies or dramas. Some people criticized Interiors, saying that it had no humor at all. I felt that this was a completely irrelevant criticism. Whatever was wrong with it, the problem is not that it lacks humor. There’s not much humor in Othello or Persona. If I could write a couple of plays or films that had a serious tone, I would much prefer to do that than have the comedy hit of the year.

Because that would give me personal pleasure—in the same sense that I prefer to play New Orleans jazz than to play Mozart. I adore Mozart but I prefer to play New Orleans jazz. Just my preference.

But when you’re writing a script and humor surfaces you grasp it with pleasure, no?

Yes, it’s always a pleasure. Usually what happens is that there are a number of surprises in films, and usually the surprises are the negative ones. You think you have something funny in a joke or a scene, and it turns out not to be funny, and you’re surprised.

And you’re stuck with it.

Or you throw it away. On the other hand, once in a great while you get a pleasant surprise, and something that you never thought was going to be amusing, the audience laughs at or howls at, and it’s a wonderful thing.

Can you give an example of that?

When I first made Bananas years ago, I was going over to the dictator’s house—I was invited for dinner there in this Latin American country. I brought with me some cake in a box, a string cake from one of the bakery shops. I didn’t think much of it at all, but it consistently always got the biggest howls from the audience. What they were laughing over was the fact that my character was foolish enough to bring some pastries to a state dinner. To me it was incidental on the way to the real funny stuff— to the audience it was the funniest thing.

It seems as though when an artist becomes established, other people —critics, their followers—expect them to keep on doing the same thing, instead of evolving in their own way.

That’s why you must never take what’s written about you seriously.

I’ve never written anything in my life or done any project that wasn’t what I wanted to do at the time. You really have to forget about what they call “career moves.” You just do what you want to do for your own sense of your creative life. If no one else wants to see it, that’s fine. Otherwise, you’re in the business to please other people. When we did Stardust Memories, all of us knew there would be a lot of flack.

But it wouldn’t for a second stop me. I never thought, I better not do this because people will be upset. It’d be sheer death not to go through with a project you feel like going through with at the time. Look at someone like Strindberg— another person I’ve always loved—and you see the reaction he got on certain things . . . just brutalized. When I made Annie Hall, there were a lot of suggestions that I make “Annie Hall II.” It would never occur to me in a million years to do that. I was planning to do Interiors after that, and that’s what I did. I don’t think you can survive any other way. To me, the trick is never to try to appeal to a large number of people, but to do the finest possible work I can conceive of, and I hope if the work is indeed good, people will come to see it. The artists I’ve loved, most did not have large publics. The important thing is the doing of it. And what happens afterward—you just hope you get lucky. Even in a popular art form like film, in the U.S. most people haven’t seen The Bicycle Thief or The Grand Illusion or Persona. Most people go through their whole lives without seeing

any of them. Most of the younger generation supporting the films that are around now in such abundance don’t care about Buñuel or Bergman. They’re not aware of the highest achievements of the art form. Once in a great while something comes together by pure accident of time and place and chance. Charlie Chaplin came along at the right time. If he’d come along today, he’d have had major problems.

Don’t you think that as serious writers mature they simply continue to develop and expand the themes already established?

Each person has his own obsessions. In Bergman films you find the same things over and over, but they’re usually presented with great freshness.

What about your own work?

The same things come up time after time. They’re the things that are on my mind, and one is always feeling for new ways to express them. It’s hard to think of going out and saying, Gee, I have to find something new to express. What sort of things recur? For me, certainly the seductiveness of fantasy and the cruelty of reality. As a creative person, I’ve never been interested in politics or any of the solvable things. What interested me were always the unsolvable problems: the finiteness of life and the sense of meaninglessness and despair and the inability to communicate. The difficulty in falling in love and maintaining it. Those things are much more interesting to me than . . . I don’t know, the Voting Rights Act. In life, I do follow politics a certain amount—I do find it interesting as a citizen but I’d never think of writing about it.

A word about this interview. It was hard for me because I don’t like to aggrandize my work by discussing its influences or my themes or that kind of thing. That kind of talk is more applicable to works of greater stature. I say this with no false modesty—that I feel I have done no really significant work, whatsoever, in any medium. I feel that unequivocally. I feel that what I have done so far in my life is sort of the ballast that is waiting to be uplifted by two or three really fine works that may hopefully come.

We’ve been sitting and talking about Faulkner, say, and Updike and Bergman—I mean, I obviously can’t talk about myself in the same way at all. I feel that what I’ve done so far is the . . . the bed of lettuce the hamburger must rest on. I feel that if I could do, in the rest of my life, two or three really fine works—perhaps make a terrific film or write a fine play or something—then everything prior to that point would be interesting as developmental works.

I feel that’s the status of my works—they’re a setting waiting for a jewel. But there’s no jewel there at the moment. So I’m starting to feel my interview is pompous. I need some heavy gems in there somewhere. But I hope I’ve come to a point in my life where within the next ten or fifteen years I can do two or three things that lend credence to all the stuff I’ve done already . . . Let’s hope. l

Woody Allen in “Take the Moneyand Run”

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