A Woody Dilemma

 “My first wife was very immature. At night when I’d be taking a bath, she’d come in and sink all my boats.”

— Woody Allen

During my 73 years, there is no one in the entertainment world whose work I’ve more admired than that of Woody Allen.

Well, unless it was Bill Cosby. 

Sure can pick my entertainment idols, can’t I?

I chose not to watch the HBO documentary “Allen vs. Farrow,” knowing that what Allen is accused off — sexually molesting his young adopted daughter, Dylan — would neither be proved nor disproved by the viewing. Ms. Farrow and her mother, actress Mia Farrow, will always say it happened. Allen, barring the possibility of a deathbed confession, will always say it did not. 

What I’m writing about, then, is the discomfort I feel in my admiration for Allen as a comedian, actor and above all a film maker — and where to place that amidst my uneasiness with him as a human being. And, of course, there’s the question of whether I, or anyone, should view the work — whatever the quality — of someone with Allen’s (alleged) baggage.

I so want to like and respect someone whose work I so admire. 

It’s ... difficult.

Regarding Allen, that admiration and that unease have been dueling within me for more than a half-century.

Circa 1965, Allen — then best known as a stand-up comedian, his film career soon to launch — guest-hosted one night for Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. One of his guests was an attractive and very young dancer/actress named Lada Edmund Jr. 

This is my recollection of what happened, with the caveat that it took place long ago and that memories can fade. 

During the interview, without any apparent provocation, Allen got up from the host’s desk, walked over and planted Ms. Edmund with a hard kiss on the mouth. Edmund, clearly freaked, struggled against the kiss. But Allen simply walked back to his chair and continued the interview as if nothing had happened. Edmund, not knowing what else to do, did the same.

Hmm. 

Had such a thing happened today, at least a mini-scandal almost certainly would have erupted. At the time, with social media not even a glint in Mark Zuckerberg’s eye, there was, that I’m aware of, no reaction at all. And as startled as I was, I did not tell myself, “I’ll never watch another Woody Allen stand-up routine.”

It was, though, my introduction to Allen’s uh, quirkiness regarding younger women. 

From there, Allen began to act and direct. I haven’t seen all of his films by any means, but most of the ones I’ve seen remain favorites:

“Bananas.” Having Howard Cosell do play-by-play on a coup d’etat was pure genius.

“Take the Money and Run.”

“Play It Again, Sam.”

“Sleeper.”

“Everything You Wanted to Know About Sex * But Were Afraid to Ask.”

“Annie Hall,” an Oscar winner for best picture. Marshall McLuhan’s cameo was priceless. 

“Manhattan.”

“Zelig.”

“Broadway Danny Rose.” How could someone create a character as nice as Danny Rose and not be a really nice guy himself?

“The Purple Rose of Cairo.”

“Bullets Over Broadway.”

Because I tend to prefer comedy over drama, and because I stopped going to movies regularly even before COVID-19, I’ve not seen Allen’s later, more artsy efforts. Some of those, I know, added greatly to his lustrous resume.

In addition to the best-picture Oscar for “Annie Hall,” Allen has won three times for best original screenplay and once for best director.

Of course, within “Manhattan,” there’s that romance between Isaac Davis, the lead character played by Allen, and a teenage girl, played by Mariel Hemingway. Is there anything intrinsically wrong with May-November relationships, regardless of who’s May and who’s November? No, of course not. But April-December, like Isaac and Tracy in “Manhattan?” Well, um ... 

Yet, Allen’s real-life relationship with Soon-Yi Previn, so cringe-worthy at first, has become an enduring one. The heart wants what the heart wants, as Allen and others have said. 

Still, in light of the Lada Edmund Jr., incident, maybe it all should have driven me to boycott Woody Allen films. It didn’t.

Now, to the question of whether I would again watch a Woody Allen film a second time, the answer is:  I never have, so I see no reason to start now.

Yes, that’s right. As much as I admire Allen’s  work, I never have seen one of his films more than once — putting not a single one of them in the same category with “Casablanca,” “North by Northwest,” “The Deer Hunter,” and yes, “Caddyshack” and “Animal House.” Why, I’m not at all sure. Maybe they were so good, so satisfying, I didn’t feel the need. Maybe it’s because they don’t seem to crop up on HBO, Netflix, et al. Maybe that’s a legal thing.

Still, the question remains: can a film be appreciated for what it is, for itself, apart from the deeds and the character of its creator?

Yes, I believe so. If you disagree, I respect your opinion.

But what, then, about books?

Hello, Dr. Seuss?