This is the point where I take another stab at film reviewing, this time Whatever Works by Woody Allen, opening this Friday.

The short review is, don’t see it. It’s not that good. Also, Woody has done much better versions of the same film, particularly Hannah and her Sisters, but Manhattan and Annie Hall make many of the same points, more convincingly.

However, if you’re interested in the Woody canon (that sounds like a porn film), Whatever Works is an interesting fit. Woody wrote it in 1977, the same year Annie Hall was released. It was dead center his “autobiographical period,” just following his “funny period” (which consisted of four films, ending with Love and Death). Woody’s autobiographical period, which lasted from 1977 to 1980, is arguably his greatest time as a filmmaker. It’s the time of not only Annie Hall and Manhattan but also his two best films, Interiors and Stardust Memories.

Around 1980 Woody met Mia Farrow. That relationship didn’t turn out so well. It also wouldn’t appear to be the best thing for Woody’s films as he began his “Story-Story Period.”* There are many  great films during this time, but the best of them, like Zelig and The Purple Rose of Cairo, don’t compare to the four movies he released between 1977 and 1980. It’s unfair to blame Mia for this. More likely it was a reaction to the critical reception to Stardust Memories.

Stardust Memories is Woody’s best film (why say “arguably” when I don’t mean it). And, like many great films (and books) that take a risk with at the height of a star’s career, it was panned by the critics. Here’s Roger Ebert:

“Stardust Memories is a disappointment. It needs some larger idea, some sort of organizing force, to pull together all these scenes of bitching and moaning, and make them lead somewhere.”

The great example of this tendency in our time is Fight Club (which Ebert, in a more interesting and nuanced review, gave 2 stars), which may have disappeared forever if it wasn’t for the DVD. Stardust Memories wasn’t just panned, it was mocked, and Woody Allen went into retreat. His next films were harder to associate with the director. They were no longer comments on the author’s life, the director of the films had disappeared into the story.

In interviews Woody has flatly denied that any of his films are autobiographical. It’s not really a point worth arguing. Like with books, there is no difference between seeming autobiographical and being autobiographical, since once the work is out in the world it exists independent of its creator. But the feeling of connection maintains in the work, even when its creator is hiding in Southern France.

There are people who prefer the distance of a “story-story,” a good yarn where the author is nowhere to be seen. I am not one of these people. I prefer Wonder Boys to Kavalier and Clay and Fortress of Solitude to everything else Jonathan Lethem has ever done. Stories where the protagonist is a stand in for the author are rarer in film, but City of God and Sherman’s March show how powerful the medium can be. And so does Woody Allen, at his best.

It’s not that Woody never went back or that many of his films didn’t still contain biographical elements. In 1992 he released Husbands and Wives. During the filming Mia Farrow found pictures of her daughter nude on Woody’s mantle. She completed the film anyway, asking Liam Neeson if she was manipulative on camera. Husbands and Wives has the feel of a Stalin show trial as Woody forces Mia into (false) confessions. As an actor, she has no recourse but to read her lines. By 1992 Woody is so sure, so adept, his autobiography is no longer vulnerable, it’s a weapon.

And so, Whatever Works. A minor failure of a movie. It seems, while watching, that the problem is Larry David, his inability to pull off the lead role. He’s supposed to be bitter and resigned, but he’s too funny and likable, and he drains the necessary suspension of disbelief. And there are other problems. Woody’s offering of New York as a cure for every small town repressed idiot. In Whatever Works housewives come to Manhattan and are discovered as great artists and immediately fall into polyamorous three-way living situations. Their husbands follow, say a prayer, before admitting homosexual fantasies. All these alternative relationships are presented simply, as problem free solutions (but how do you get up to use the bathroom when you’re in the middle of a bed with lovers sleeping on either side?). But the real problem with the film is the distance. It’s about an emotional place that the film maker doesn’t seem to believe in.

Woody is still capable of making amazing films. Last year’s Vicky Christina Barcelona was masterful. But Whatever Works was written at a time when Woody was willing to put everything out there. It makes me think of some of the best moments in Stardust Memories, which isn’t just autobiographical, it’s meta-autobiographical. When Woody meets the alien in the woods and the alien informs him, “We love your films, especially the early funny ones.” Or later, when asked about the meaning of his body of work, “I’d give it all up for one more second of life.”And finally, at the end of the movie one viewer asks another, ”What do you think was the significance of the Rolls-Royce?” The response comes, ”I think it represented his car.”

Times change. The director of Bananas would not have been able to pull off comedies like Bullets Over Broadway or Vicky Christina Barcelona. And the director of Manhattan is not the same director who made Crimes and Misdemeanors. Woody Allen is going to make more good films, but the Woody that wrote Whatever Works isn’t around anymore.

**

*I made all these terms up, but I stand by them.

Woody Allen wall painting by Jef Aerosol

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