MANHATTAN
Directed by Woody Allen
Written by Woody Allen and Marshall Brickman
Starring Woody Allen, Diane Keaton, Mariel Hemingway, Meryl Streep
Released in 1979
Directed by Woody Allen
Written by Woody Allen and Marshall Brickman
Starring Woody Allen, Diane Keaton, Mariel Hemingway, Meryl Streep
Released in 1979
The star of Woody Allen's movie Manhattan (1979) is the one named in the title. The people who move through the veins and arteries of this motion picture pump the heart and flex the neurons, yet it is the borough itself that is the protagonist of this beautiful film. From the opening sequence that ends in stratospheric celebration to the ending that begins with a boyish grin of anticipatory dread,Manhattan sings its own song, speaks of itself, writes its own future, directs its own blocking, strategically casts its shadows, meticulously sprinkles its pixie dust of light throughout its planetarium and floods its streets with a diversity as broad and wondrous as that of life itself.
In 1979 Woody Allen was the king of the world. Fresh and hot off the success of staying in Michael's Pub to play clarinet on the night the Academy Awards bestowed deserved honors for Annie Hall and the tepid yet kind reviews of Interiors, he was poised to make whatever kind of movie he wanted. What he created was a picture of the breadth of despair camouflaged in horse-drawn carriages through Central Park, smart jokes about the stupidity of intellectualism, the puerile attraction of a young Mariel Hemingway that gets transmogrified into something extremely legitimate, the total rejection by a magnificent Meryl Streep, and the brain diseased narcissism of Diane Keaton (I'm speaking here of these actors' characters, of course, not the women themselves) within a room that pours out into the city while friendships--hard won--disintegrate like particulates of pollution, all for the sake of that illusive bastard Love.
Because it is Woody Allen, we are also given tremendous insights into his character's feelings about the sterility of television, the struggle to express anger rather than to grow a tumor, the lies of a literary life, and pretentious people going to see movies with titles they cannot even pronounce. Also because it is Woody Allen, we get all kinds of subtle items that hop up and tap us on the shoulder before running away, such as the fact that about half the interior scenes in this movie begin with bookshelves in their backgrounds, or the siting of two lovers who pass on the street looking very much like the two in Annie Hall who made reference to their own shallowness, or the orchestrated facial interaction among Allen, Keaton, Michael Murphy and Anne Byrne as they attempt to establish an awkward equilibrium at the symphony. It's all love and hate, suicide and despair, smart jokes and betrayal, and you'll love it even if you live out west.
It also has a short sequence with the late Michael O'Donoghue, and for that alone your time will be well-spent. Plus you get to see the also late-Bella Abzug. So buy your tickets, clean your DVD-players, polish your Christmas tree lights: it's time for you to get transported to Manhattan.
In 1979 Woody Allen was the king of the world. Fresh and hot off the success of staying in Michael's Pub to play clarinet on the night the Academy Awards bestowed deserved honors for Annie Hall and the tepid yet kind reviews of Interiors, he was poised to make whatever kind of movie he wanted. What he created was a picture of the breadth of despair camouflaged in horse-drawn carriages through Central Park, smart jokes about the stupidity of intellectualism, the puerile attraction of a young Mariel Hemingway that gets transmogrified into something extremely legitimate, the total rejection by a magnificent Meryl Streep, and the brain diseased narcissism of Diane Keaton (I'm speaking here of these actors' characters, of course, not the women themselves) within a room that pours out into the city while friendships--hard won--disintegrate like particulates of pollution, all for the sake of that illusive bastard Love.
Because it is Woody Allen, we are also given tremendous insights into his character's feelings about the sterility of television, the struggle to express anger rather than to grow a tumor, the lies of a literary life, and pretentious people going to see movies with titles they cannot even pronounce. Also because it is Woody Allen, we get all kinds of subtle items that hop up and tap us on the shoulder before running away, such as the fact that about half the interior scenes in this movie begin with bookshelves in their backgrounds, or the siting of two lovers who pass on the street looking very much like the two in Annie Hall who made reference to their own shallowness, or the orchestrated facial interaction among Allen, Keaton, Michael Murphy and Anne Byrne as they attempt to establish an awkward equilibrium at the symphony. It's all love and hate, suicide and despair, smart jokes and betrayal, and you'll love it even if you live out west.
It also has a short sequence with the late Michael O'Donoghue, and for that alone your time will be well-spent. Plus you get to see the also late-Bella Abzug. So buy your tickets, clean your DVD-players, polish your Christmas tree lights: it's time for you to get transported to Manhattan.
