Woody Allen’s most
impassioned movie—if one accepts the popular notion that the great love of the
comedian’s life is New York City, not any of his children or romantic
companions—Manhattan is intoxicating
from an aesthetic perspective. Allen’s genius notion of pairing George
Gershwin’s resplendent music with artful black-and-white images of New York
City turns every exterior shot into a cinematic postcard, and the way Allen
stages an elaborate dance of interconnected romantic relationships against this
magical backdrop accentuates the appealing idea that Manhattan is made for
lovers. Yet the film is also challenging and complex, a hyper-literate saga starring Allen as a character
for whom it’s difficult to sympathize.
By the filmmaker’s own admission, Manhattan synthesizes elements from his
two immediately preceding pictures, the bittersweet romance Annie Hall (1977) and the bleak family
story Interiors (1978). Thus, Manhattan’s blend of farce and pathos arguably
represents Allen’s first truly mature work, a human story that neither hides
behind crowd-pleasing jokes nor indulges in pretentious psychodrama. Manhattan is not for every taste, to be
sure, but it’s a fascinating film made with exceptional intelligence and skill.
Plus, even if the characters are painfully neurotic and
self-serving, that’s at least partially the point—building on the sharply
observed character work in Annie Hall,
Allen used Manhattan to further hone
his skills for cultural observation and social satire, and none of the film’s
characters (including the Allen-esque scribe whom the director portrays)
escapes devastating scrutiny.
The main plot concerns the romantic travails of
Isaac Davis (Allen), a comedy writer who is sleeping with a 17-year-old student
(Mariel Hemingway). Despite this entanglement, Isaac is also drawn to a woman
his own age (Diane Keaton), who is having an adulterous fling with Issac’s
(married) best friend (Michael Murphy). Meanwhile, Isaac’s ex-wife (Meryl
Streep), who came out as a lesbian after her marriage to Isaac
ended, is writing a tell-all book about their relationship. Working once more
with Annie Hall cowriter Marshall
Brickman, Allen constantly jogs back and forth between comedy and drama, often
in the same scene, and the film’s acidic dialogue explores the many ways people
impede their own happiness.
The central love story isn’t as compelling as that
in Annie Hall—it’s hard to root for a
grown man who’s schtupping a schoolgirl—and the movie sometimes skews a little
too downbeat. However, the blazingly intelligent writing, the uniformly wonderful performances, and Gordon Willis’
spectacular cinematography make the film thoroughly rewarding. (Of special note among the actors is Hemingway, who gives the best performance of her career at a very young age; the curiosity, emotion, and naïveté she brings to her character almost makes Isaac’s inappropriate involvement understandable.) Most of all, it’s compelling to watch Allen’s artistry reach an early peak, and to realize that over the course of the ’70s, he rapidly evolved from a lightweight jokester to one of the world’s most important cinematic storytellers.
Manhattan:
RIGHT ON
