There's a good little absurdist sketch in the middle of this, with fictional characters waiting for the story to progress, but it's surrounded by a vapid celebration of encyclopedic cinephilia, with the most sorry, miserable excuse for a main character. It's more successful at replicating sets and memorabilia than finding the spirit of the era. If you've seen a single Lubitsch, you already know better.
Honest, borderline corny, love letter to prosaic movie going, another sequence of director's personal escape from Industry and a bittersweet criticism of it. And even though it's one of the rare ones where he doesn't play a part, Jeff Daniels character can be seen as Woody's take on dichotomy of his (non)fictional characters and himself.
Allen isn't to be trusted when it comes to philosophical depth, and Purple Rose barely has enough story to fill 80 minutes. But it has lovely whimsical melancholy, and it's worth noting that, self-absorbed as he is, this is a rare film from that period with no "Allen" character, just a love letter to Mia and to moviegoers (but not Hollywood). Final coup: turning a Fred and Ginger puff pastry into something poignant.
re-rating. From the life of characters in a world of fictional inventory of imaginary lives through distinct and intersected layers, making realize that life's dream is a dream living within a dream, which is life itself. Dream as materia and allegory of cinema. The great final shot of Cecilia/Mia Farrow is the constitutive durability of this perception, although she's also a character, just like us, organic unicity.