dir. Martin Ritt
USA, 1975
Hitherto unknown (to me) film starring Woody Allen as a front for a group of TV writers blacklisted during the McCarthy era. Unexpectedly stirring to see Allen tell the HUAC committee to "go fuck yourselves"...
Showing posts with label Woody Allen. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Woody Allen. Show all posts
Monday, 3 January 2011
Tuesday, 13 May 2008
Crimes and Misdemeanors
Rediscovering Woody at the moment. I may have seen this before, but can't remember.
Thinking of it now, it's almost a predecessor to Match Point (which I seem to be utterly alone in the human race in actually liking), full of tragedic moral and religious dilemmas, a murderer getting away with, yep, murder. Actually, I guess it's part of a strand that runs through the whole of Woody's work. The Greek chorus in Mighty Aphrodite, the religious angst of Mickey in Hannah and Her Sisters, marriage break-ups and infidelity in pretty much every one of his films, the stories about 'castrating Zionists' in Manhattan. I never tire of it, his perfectly fine-tuned balance between that deep interrogation of the meaning of life and the hilarious consequences of our pathetic attempts to understand it all. No-one captures it quiet as well, I don't think. As Woody's Mickey says in Hannah and Her Sisters, "All these great minds who've written all these books, and none of them have any more answers than I do. I've read Socrates, he used to knock off little Greek boys, what's he got to tell me?"
Thinking of it now, it's almost a predecessor to Match Point (which I seem to be utterly alone in the human race in actually liking), full of tragedic moral and religious dilemmas, a murderer getting away with, yep, murder. Actually, I guess it's part of a strand that runs through the whole of Woody's work. The Greek chorus in Mighty Aphrodite, the religious angst of Mickey in Hannah and Her Sisters, marriage break-ups and infidelity in pretty much every one of his films, the stories about 'castrating Zionists' in Manhattan. I never tire of it, his perfectly fine-tuned balance between that deep interrogation of the meaning of life and the hilarious consequences of our pathetic attempts to understand it all. No-one captures it quiet as well, I don't think. As Woody's Mickey says in Hannah and Her Sisters, "All these great minds who've written all these books, and none of them have any more answers than I do. I've read Socrates, he used to knock off little Greek boys, what's he got to tell me?"
Monday, 12 May 2008
Saturday, 10 November 2007
Metropolitan
I saw Whit Stillman's Metropolitan last night. Described as a "great afternoon film" by my friend Al, it is simply a great film. Not great in the grand scheme of things perhaps, but great nonetheless.
The tone is perfect. It manages to balance the arch dialogue ("I'm a committed Socialist yes but not a Marxist. I prefer the socialist model developed by the 19th century socialist critic Fourier") and intentionally mannered acting with a wonderful deftness. It helps that there is a constant stream of funny one-liners ("playing strip poker with an exhibitionist somehow takes the challenge out of it"), largely delivered by Chris Eigeman's Nick Smith. It has a consistency to it, the lines don't sound contrived even though they are.
It is like a cross between Woody Allen's films and JD Salinger's short stories. Metropolitan is as quintessentially New York as both Allen and Salinger, the characters in this film as firmly rooted in the Big Apple as Alvy Singer or Zooey Glass. It's part of the film's allure, that it presents us with this classic image of New York, New York at Christmas, New York's rich young things, great parties, balls, debutantes. It's a cinematic box of expensive chocolates; a wilful ignorance of the "real" New York that no-one wants to see and gives us our dream New York, the city we all want to be rich and young in.
The tone is perfect. It manages to balance the arch dialogue ("I'm a committed Socialist yes but not a Marxist. I prefer the socialist model developed by the 19th century socialist critic Fourier") and intentionally mannered acting with a wonderful deftness. It helps that there is a constant stream of funny one-liners ("playing strip poker with an exhibitionist somehow takes the challenge out of it"), largely delivered by Chris Eigeman's Nick Smith. It has a consistency to it, the lines don't sound contrived even though they are.
It is like a cross between Woody Allen's films and JD Salinger's short stories. Metropolitan is as quintessentially New York as both Allen and Salinger, the characters in this film as firmly rooted in the Big Apple as Alvy Singer or Zooey Glass. It's part of the film's allure, that it presents us with this classic image of New York, New York at Christmas, New York's rich young things, great parties, balls, debutantes. It's a cinematic box of expensive chocolates; a wilful ignorance of the "real" New York that no-one wants to see and gives us our dream New York, the city we all want to be rich and young in.
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