In the 1972 movie, Play It Again, Sam, Woody Allen gives a dazzling performance as Allan Felix: a neurotic, middle-class Jew who is attempting to mend a broken heart after his wife leaves him.
In one hilarious scene, Allan tries to chat up a cute young lady at an art museum: asking her how a Franz Kline painting she is deeply engrossed in speaks to her inner being. She replies – with deadpan coolness – that it reflects the hideous, lonely emptiness of a godless universe.
Allan, rather sheepishly, then asks what her plans are for Saturday night?
“Committing suicide”, she says.
“What about Friday night?” he responds.
This dark, existential gag is classic Woody Allen.
It’s also what makes him one of the most prolific and successful auteurs in the history of cinema.
Unlike most filmmakers in the United States, Allen has managed to maintain total control as both writer and director over the past five decades: eschewing the lures of mainstream blockbuster budgets. He’s been nominated 23 times for Academy awards, winning four with Annie Hall: considered by most critics to be his masterpiece.
To coincide with Allen’s 80th birthday lastDecember, there has been a recent surge in books about his life. In September there was Woody Allen Film by Film, by Jason Solomons, and Woody Allen, A Retrospective by Tom Shone.
Then there is the plethora of biographies, books of essays and critical analyses already out there; not to mention Woody Allen, a Documentary, released in 2012.
Given the great glut of material that already exists, there probably isn’t a huge need for yet another biography. David Evanier attempted to get Allen’s co-operation for the book, but the godfather of self-obsessed narcissism politely declined.
Still, it’s abundantly clear from the beginning that the author is besotted with the subject he is writing about. So maintaining even the slightest semblance of objectivity becomes a major problem as the book progresses. Allen is described as an artist “who was, and is, pure”. We are treated to long explanations about why “his “brilliance” and “his magic” have “touched the entire world”.
The hyperbolic language aside, however, there are little pockets of cultural analyses that are fascinating. Allen’s humour, where self-absorption merges with self-hatred, insecurity, and alienation, is unapologetically Jewish, Evanier reminds us. Allen’s rise to fame in the late 1960s, we learn, coincided with a time when Jews were just coming to the forefront of idol status in American culture: a space previously dominated by white Anglo-Saxons, in Hollywood especially.
We’re told that Allen’s biggest intellectual influence comes from 19th-century Russian novelists; that he’s fixated in his work with the Holocaust, death, morality, or lack of it; and that middle- and upper-class New Yorkers play a prominent role in almost all of his movies.
If the first half of this book is intent on dissecting Allen’s cultural influences, the second half is a different beast entirely: focusing almost exclusively on Allen’s controversial sex life.
In 1992 Allen had an affair with Soon-Yi Previn, to whom he is now married. At the time, Allen was dating Mia Farrow for 12 years, and Soon-Yi (who was then 22) was Farrow’s adopted daughter. Rather than confronting Farrow about the affair directly, Allen chose a disturbing and cowardly method to reveal it instead: purposely leaving a stack of pornographic Polaroid photos on his mantelpiece of Soon-Yi naked, spreading her legs apart.
That same year, Farrow then accused Allen of sexually molesting their adopted daughter, Dylan. Many readers may find this section of the narrative considerably distressing. I certainly did.
We’re treated to pages and pages of material regarding the allegations: this includes lawyers’ testimonies, psychology reports and op-ed pieces from journalists, who defend Allen as if their life depends upon it. Allen was cleared of the charges, but the controversy still lingers. A public tabloid circus has been ongoing for more than two decades now. And Dylan Farrow still maintains that Allen molested her.
Making a personal judgment on whether or not the abuse took place is essentially an impossible task: given the suspicious circumstances surrounding the case on both sides. But Evanier gives it his best shot at playing judge and jury nevertheless. The rest of the narrative thus becomes a direct attempt to clear Allen’s name of any previous suggestion that he is a paedophile.
Evanier dedicates an entire chapter to try and force Dick Cavett, one of Allen’s close friends, during an interview, to refer to Farrow as someone who uses pathological vengefulness to get her way in life. This consistent vilifying of Farrow, for whom Evanier seems almost to have a personal dislike, is one of the book’s biggest flaws.
It may be possible to separate Allen the man from Allen the artist when viewing his work. I must confess, I’ve always been hugely drawn to his films, and feel artistically, when he’s on form, he’s approaching genius status.
Even still, I found myself having little sympathy or admiration for Allen after I put down Evanier’s one-sided, subjective narrative: which, at times, feels closer to poor gossip column style tabloid journalism, than a biography with serious critical credentials.
