MUBI

Annie Hall was the turning point in Woody Allen’s career and it remains its pinnacle. It’s his greatest, purest, and most personal foray. It elevated him from an undefined Chaplin heir to a unique comic artist, carrying his two defining characteristics, neurosis and sexual frustration. While the Academy’s apparent bias toward comedies is unfortunate, it is telling that this was one of the very few to win Best Picture. There is something transcendental about Annie Hall, not only in the context of Woody’s development as a filmmaker, but in the construct of the art form. Indeed, so much has been made about the significance of the film in terms of Woody’s path as an artist, that it is often forgotten how revolutionary this bittersweet tale of love found, lost, and botched again was.
For starters, Woody Allen fine-tuned the medium of cinema into a great conversation platform. Simply “chatting” with his characters or listening in on their conversations is as enriching an experience as attending any gathering of intellects. Allen further enhances the conversational aspects of his films by talking out to his audience, often by breaking the fourth wall. It’s fun in most of his films, but in Annie Hall it is also important. He begins the film talking straight out to the audience, sharing some, by now, iconic jokes about the Catskills and not wanting to belong to certain clubs that provide insight into the mind of his Alvy Singer. But the most important confession from Alvy is that he “has trouble separating fantasy from reality”. It is essential that we know to question the reliability of Alvy’s version of the break-up with Annie Hall (Diane Keaton). It is easy to forget this as practically the whole film is based on his perspective of a relationship gone badly.
Knowing that the entire film is essentially a one-sided recollection, it is now important that we get to know what kind of person Alvy Singer is. He is neurotic and confused; blame that on his childhood spent living beneath a Coney Island rollercoaster. Alvy Singer is the Woody Allen character that stapled his career. He balances anxiety with intellect and a taste for art with a need for sex and psychoanalysis. Of course, Annie Hall wouldn’t work any other way. It’s the story of a failed romance through the eyes of Woody Allen.
Still, Annie Hall is surprisingly frank, especially for a film so infused with autobiographical elements. One of the most commendable traits in Allen’s work and one that he shares with the great comedians is his fearless approach to self-deprecating humor. From the start there is little mystery as to why Alvy and Annie broke up. They are both, in their own ways, insufferable.
Annie Hall exemplifies one of Woody’s most glorious tenants. His films make us smarter while indulging us. We laugh and, in this case especially, we grow pensive. We gather a lot of esoteric references that, if we don’t grasp immediately, we are inspired to learn more about. Has there been a more effective introduction to the work of Marshall McLuhan?
“Intellects can be brilliant,” Alvy groans at one point. “But not have a clue about what’s going on.” This is one of Woody’s virtues. He has a brilliant mind, but his material is never “pontificating” (what he accuses an obnoxious movie-goer of being) and it never feels elitist. Borrowing a lot form comic masters such as Groucho and Keaton, his humor is universally accessible, while also stimulating.
The way Annie Hall is told, as chronologically jumbled memories of the relationship, allows for many wonderful bits. The lobster invasion in Annie’s kitchen hints at what the Alvy-Annie relationship looked like at its best. On their first meeting at a tennis court, they almost look like different people from who they are when their relationship ends. Annie is still a shy Midwestern girl newly arrived in New York, eager to flirt with the thrills of the big city. Alvy still has his nerves under control and actually takes command of the conversation. We can understand why they are attracted to each other.
Then, however, we start seeing hints of their love crumbling. They start subtle but become so obvious until the two are unsalvageable. There is, for instance, an amusing bit in which Alvy visits Annie’s WASP-ish family, in which Alvy’s paranoia goes hilariously out of control. We start understanding that the two come from different and irreconcilable worlds. If there is one thing to lament in the sequence is that Alvy’s very funny encounter with Annie’s psychotic brother Duane (a young Christopher Walken) is way too brief. Opposites attract, but Alvy and Annie should not be together. Annie is initially shy but is happy in life. Alvy blurts out a lot of babble, but his emotions are a wreck.
Allen makes clever use of cross-cutting to illustrate their jump from bliss to chaos. In one scene they are kissing by the Brooklyn Bridge at nightfall in the immediately proceeding scene they are arguing over her decision to move in with him. Their quarrel opens up a can of worms. “You don’t think I’m smart enough to get serious about,” Annie fears. Allen uses other techniques; including split-screens depicting Alvy’s and Annie’s family lives and their talks with their respective shrinks.
Much of what happens between them is Alvy’s doing. He gives her a talk about love and is then shocked when she wants to move in with him. He pushes Annie to take college classes but becomes jealous of her friendship with her professor. Alvy’s behavior is self-destructive but at least he knows how to put his depression in comic perspective.
As far in advance as we can see the end of Alvy and Annie’s romance, it is still a little sad to see it go down. There are good times between them and a glimpse at some of the other women Alvy dates afterwards proves that there was something special about Annie Hall. We are left with a conflict. We know that these two cannot be together and yet we enjoy being in their joint company.
The music producer played by Paul Simon and his posse are representative of the world that Annie Hall wants and Alvy needs to stay away from, they are heading in opposite directions. Allen’s split screens do more than contrast, they explore the reasons for the break-up.
In truth, both Alvy Singer and Annie Hall are fascinating people individually. But their respective character flaws cancel each other out. That’s the story of so many real-life relationships and nobody knows this better than Woody Allen. Both within the context of the film itself and externally, Annie Hall is art imitating life. In the end, Alvy (and Woody Allen by extension) practically admit to having manipulated the imperfections of real-life heartbreak into a narrative. Alvy’s famous last punch-line is worth all the self-help books when it comes to understanding adult relationships. We are touched by it because it rings so true.

This was at least my 8th time seeing the film and it remains a brilliant piece of film making. Allen has equaled this film several times in his career but I feel Annie Hall will always be the quintessential Woody Allen film. Not just because it won the Oscar but for it’s influence on so many film makers around the world. I don’t think I have any dislikes of the the film. The first 15 minutes are definitely some of my favorite scenes in any film ever made. The opening scene and the closing narration with montage bookend the film beautifully. I love all the small character developing jokes that Allen uses throughout the film, like when Alvey expresses his paranoia about an acquaintance’s possible veiled racist remark. In summation Annie Hall is the benchmark in terms of romantic comedies and arguably has never been surpassed.

Annie Hall is one of my favorite movies. Starred by Woody Allen itself and Diane Keaton this master piece has become a classic and I believe it is one of the best movies of all times.

The story opens with Allen’s character telling two key jokes which seem really funny at first but after watching the film we understand they aren’t as hilarious as we thought. Through a unique narrative style Woody chronicles the relationship between two neurotic people over several years. Alvy and Annie live in New York and, by some imaginary time trips, during the film we are showed both of their lives before having met.

The audience is trapped by this cute and funny love tale that talks about the eternal search for satisfaction that most of the people have to deal with during their short, lonely, painful but beautiful lives. These people are us and we can’t help thinking that at least one character behaves like us or like someone we know.

Allen presents us, thus, a quite pessimistic but clever reflection upon life supported by unforgettable dialogues flawlessly interpreted by the cast.

Five-star movie.

While it’s a decent script, Woody Allen tends to present the same character time after time in his movies. He makes this a weak attempt and should’ve stuck to directing only. It does have some good performances especially from the insane brother of Diane Keaton, Christopher Walken. It’s an enjoyable film, but is not flawless by any means. It’s huge problem lies really with the warped and misogynistic nature of the relationship, in no way does it reflect a good meaning.

I had a thought when watching this movie. I hadn’t seen any other Woody Allen, except for Sleeper, which was essentially one joke on film. Here we have Woody Allen, in the form of Alvie Singer, an aging comedian hopelessly searching for true love, stuck in the modern New York of pretentious intellectuals and scenesters, himself irrevocably a part of, yet desperately trying to escape, and all the time knowing, as a filmmaker, he could never live up to the films he and the rest of his collegiate thesis-trailblazing friends laud as incredible, so instead he chooses to make fun of them at every turn, throw a few pies in their faces and go on searching for his own higher calling.

And I thought to myself, this is Synecdoche New York gone right! I know it came out many years before, and I know I have no place to compare the two, but Charlie Kaufman is essentially a weaker, less in-touch Woody Allen. Allen, I feel, is a man that actually feels shame instead of just constantly showing us the extents of his own self-disgust and self-worship, a man that respects himself enough to be able to step back with a sure foot. He even writes in a scene where his character is directing a few other characters doing the exact same thing he did a few minutes ago, except “perfecting” it. And then he says “what? it was my first play.” The idea of it, the masturbatory gaudiness of having a character resembling himself… make up a character resembling himself… that, we get the sense, is just going too far.

On the other hand, we have Charlie Kaufman, who was a soaring genius in Adaptation, not in spite of, but because of, the desperation he was feeling just to finish his script. That desperation, felt before in this movie, and in most Woody Allen movies I’d wager, and of course in 8 1/2, forced him to bear his soul because it was the only thing he had to bear. In Synecdoche, he perverts that notion and lets his little creations go on creating, spiraling into one another until any value that the movie may have had in the beginning is lost among a sea of lost moments in time and (mind you, purposely) failed attempts at creating this supposedly “real” art. This is where a man takes a thing and goes wrong. When we get the feeling Woody Allen is handling live snakes, we get the feeling Charlie Kaufman is handling butter.

This is basically the thought I had and I thought it was worth writing down. Nevertheless, I’m going outside of myself, and outside of Annie Hall. I think Annie Hall is simply brilliant in its most simple moments, like its zany meditations on relationships and Woody’s constant cynicism and witticism which is actually charming instead of “purposely” pathetic. And then the movie really soars because of Woody’s desperation and doubt within himself to make great art, and that small sliver of hope that it could happen, instead of some kind of overbearing statement of that hope’s own impossibility.

adorable, unique, funny, witty, brilliant, intelligent, beautiful, touching, groundbreaking, artistic, original, bold, realistic, unconventional (animation, split screen, non linier, making dialogs with the audience) even for today standards, and other positive words are in this film.

this film is very influential for me, from the philosophical opening scene where alvy singer told us about his comparison of life and old joke stories to the end where he compared love and old joke stories. there are no single unimportant and unnecessary part from this film. everything is just so delightful to watch, especially the on screen chemistry of woody allen and diane keaton. oh, and the wardrobe really got me too.

annie hall ran straight through the top of my best-film-of-all-time-list. thank you for such an experience, mr. allen.

i’ve been a fan of this move for about 15 years, since i first saw it on VHS. but it wasn’t until a couple of years ago, when i went to see it on the big screen, that i got the full impact of it as a masterpiece. i remember thinking as i was watching it that they don’t make movies like that anymore. there are so many little things that get lost in the small screen - moments, details in the background, gestures by the extras. allen employs the full range of narrative and cinematic techniques with seeming effortlessness- yes, even cartoons — but without any of them feeling gratuitous. i was BLOWN AWAY. i have never laughed as much or as loud at the movies. i was moved by the story, the characters, the clever flashbacks that show the characters of the present sharing the screen with themselves in the past, the music, the photography, the moments where alvy singer breaks the fourth wall, the combination of “serious” comedy with silly slapstick and stand-up, the cameos! it all doesn’t just work, it works like magic, becoming more than the sum of its wonderful parts — it ROCKS. two of the most touching and underplayed moments for me are when (1) a policeman asks alvy for his license and registration, and he tears unexpectedly them up in the cop’s face, and then (2) as alvy explains that his childhood memories are all inseparably mixed with his childhood fantasies, we see alvy as a child in the coney island boardwalk (off-season) tagging along to a rag-tag group of adults (edward hopper characters) that includes a sailor, a midget and a floozy, who blows a kiss at the camera as they all skip-along off-screen. annie hall is the best movie example i’ve seen of comedy as philosophy. alvy not only explain it outright at the beginning, but then shows it throughout the movie, and he closes with perhaps the best description of love and relationships as irrational but necessary, when he tells the joke of the man who goes to the doctor to see about a family-member who believes he’s a hen. i’ll paraphrase: “why don’t you bring him by?” the doctor asks. “well, we would” the man responds, “but, you see, we need the eggs.” how true.

One of my favorite elements of this movie is that it is forever stuck in its time; I mean, this movie could not be made outside of the seventies. From the relatively sincere psychoanalysis sessions right on through to beautiful Californians cavorting around and snorting coke with a sort of shimmery naivete. This movie, for me, is New York in 1976. The city no longer looks like that, people no longer talk like that, and yet, there’s an anthropological permanence to the ‘reality’ of these people. I think it’s quite lovely.

“My grammy never gave gifts. She was too busy getting raped by Cossacks.” This movie has so many great lines. This line isn’t even that good compared to so much of the other dialogue, but it’s short enough to put in the post! Annie Hall is just a brilliant character study, told in such a creative, original way. It’s a shame that Diane Keaton and Woody Allen didn’t stay together. They had such great chemistry together, more than any of his other leading ladies. I believe Woody Allen’s career would have taken a significantly different path if he had stayed with Diane Keaton.

De vuelta a los clásicos. Me siento raro al escribir esto, pero Dos Extraños Amantes (Annie Hall, EU, 77), el sexto largometraje del cineasta, guionista, escritor, dramaturgo, comediante y actor Allan Stewart Konigsberg (Woody Allen, pues) es, sin duda, un clásico. Y siento raro catalogando como clásico a esta cinta porque cuando se usa esta palabra uno se refiere, generalmente, a grandes filmes del pasado dirigido por creadores irrebatibles, por autores ya consagrados en el panteón de los inmortales, por cineastas extraordinarios que le dieron vuelta a las convenciones genéricas o que fueron, en mayor o en menor medida, destacados innovadores en su terreno. ¿Merece Dos Extraños Amantes este calificativo? Creo que sí.

Por principio de cuentas, esta cinta marcaría el fin de la primera etapa de Allen, formada por una serie de comedias alocadas, repletas de gags visuales más o menos ingeniosos y aderezados con chistes verbales culteranos. Aunque algunos cinéfilos prefieren a este primer Allen –el de Robó, Huyó y lo Pescaron (1969) y El Dormilón (1973)—en realidad no estamos más que ante un buen comediante y un aprendiz de cineasta. No sería hasta después de Dos Extraños Amantes que la carrera de Allen despegaría de los terrenos del gag físico más bien simplón para adentrarse en la década de los 80 con la exploración de la comedia romántica (Manhattan, 1979), la comedia de costumbres (Hanna y sus Hermanas, 1986), la comedia surreal (La Rosa Púrpura del Cairo, 1985), el falso documental postmoderno (Zelig, 1983), el cine del pasado (Broadway Danny Rose, 1984; Días de Radio, 1987), el homenaje cinefílico (Recuerdos, 1980; Comedia Sexual de una Noche de Verano, 1982) y los terrenos del drama familiar bergmaniano (las discutidas Interiores, 1977; La Otra Mujer, 1988; y Crímenes y Pecados, 1989). Es decir, Dos Extraños Amantes es el punto de inflexión en una carrera que ya no daría vuelta atrás. En segundo lugar, Dos Extraños Amantes representa una nueva forma de screwball-comedy. Hasta ese momento, las comedias románticas habían seguido las reglas básicas de la guerra de los sexos según lo habían estipulado los profetas Capra (Sucedió una Noche, 1934) y Hawks (La Fiera de Mi Niña, 1938; Ayuno de Amor, 1940). Allen vendría a crear, con Dos Extraños Amantes, un nuevo tipo de galán citadino, años luz del agresivo Cary Grant o del petulante Clark Gable. El galán alleniano es el prototipo del no-galán: un pobre diablo inseguro y neurótico, más o menos culto, más o menos prejuicioso. La comicidad autodenigratoria típicamente judía le sirve a Allen para crear un personaje que vendría a representar todas las imperfecciones e inseguridades de la vida moderna y de las relaciones de pareja, genialmente definidas en el célebre monólogo con el que Allen inicia el filme, citando una famosa frase de Groucho Marx (“Nunca pertenecería a un club que aceptara a gente como yo”). De hecho, a partir de Dos Extraños Amantes, la screwball-comedy no sería la misma y su influencia ha sido tal que la mejor comedia romántica hollywoodense de los 80 (Harry y Sally, Reiner/1989) sería impensable sin los aportes allenianos al género. A decir de quienes intervinieron en la cinta –incluso el propio Allen—la primera versión de la película era un desastre: dos horas y media de una historia de amor sin pies ni cabeza. No sería hasta que el editor Ralph Rosenblaum le metiera tijera y la recortara a 93 minutos cuando adquiriría mucho de su sentido. Dicho de otra manera, Dos Extraños Amantes es, también, el producto de una extraña pareja: Allen y Rosenblaum.