I just got through the first half of Robert Weide’s Woody Allen: A Documentary [2011], which was shown in two parts in PBS. I’m catching this if only to understand better one of my favorite directors of all time. But alas, like how The New York Times once put it, there’s nothing much else to say or know that we don’t already: that Allen’s life informs for the most part the delightful neuroses he lovingly expands and skewers on film. The first part goes through his early works and ends with Stardust Memories [1980] — in many ways an era that contains his arguably best (and seminal, but of course) works. It’s a fascinating peek behind-the-scenes of some of my most favorite films, but what intrigues me is the tone of their creator: self-depracating, too disparaging of his own masterpieces. I can’t understand, for example, how Allen cannot seem to bring himself to like Manhattan [1978], that lovely, lovely Valentine to New York. Are artists the best judges of their work? I’m beginning to think not.
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I just got through the first half of Robert Weide’s Woody Allen: A Documentary [2011], which was shown in two parts in PBS. I’m catching this if only to understand better one of my favorite directors of all time. But alas, like how The New York Times once put it, there’s nothing much else to say or know that we don’t already: that Allen’s life informs for the most part the delightful neuroses he lovingly expands and skewers on film. The first part goes through his early works and ends with Stardust Memories [1980] — in many ways an era that contains his arguably best (and seminal, but of course) works. It’s a fascinating peek behind-the-scenes of some of my most favorite films, but what intrigues me is the tone of their creator: self-depracating, too disparaging of his own masterpieces. I can’t understand, for example, how Allen cannot seem to bring himself to like Manhattan [1978], that lovely, lovely Valentine to New York. Are artists the best judges of their work? I’m beginning to think not.