Annie Halli is possibly how crap like Sex in the City got started in the first place.
Diane Keaton is not hot. By her not being hot I don't mean she's sexually unattractive, or bereft of tits worh the mention, or lacking enough gumption to work her butt into some sort of marketable securityii. By her not being hot I simply mean that she fails to be representative for anything. It's not that she fails to be a hero to which other women may aspire, it's that she fails to be something women might resemble at all. Sure, a vanishingly small minority of marginal people I've blessfully never met may go about singing in her horrible falsettoiii and generally muddle their way through life in a manner that may appear at least superficially similar. If that's you, congratulations : you're one of the probably five people in that sad situation. There's literally almost nobody like you, that's how fucked up, broken and defective you are. I guess it is mildly amusing that you think otherwise.
Woody Allen is not funny. By him not being funny I don't mean that he fails to provoke a laugh (he mostly fails to provoke a laugh, except for the ODing on Mahjongg tiles part). By him not being funny I mean he's not clever, or smart, or even wise at all (even if you go by the New York subway sense of "wise"). He's about as dumb as rocks, all his upset at some random Columbia associate professor blathering on without end or pause about things he failed to grasp is simply self-descriptive. It may appear to the superficial examiner that Woody Allen moves in a world of intellectual pursuits, conceptual furnishings and French trappings, but this is not the case. They're as much his as your exercise machinery, equipment and contraptions are your cat's. At most they can each take a leak on the history of human thought and the implements of butt improvement respectively. In general nothing rubs off, nor ever could. He's just that fucked up, broken and dysfunctional.
So that's it : two weirdos have chosen to document their weird. It's interesting in the sense two flies fucking in some gutter somewhere are interesting : if you're an entomologist or a really, really sick fuck. I suppose sufficient intoxication could provoke in anyone ideation to the effect that they're just like a fly or whatever other random something in the environment, but that's about all. In Allen's own terms, it's not the case that relationships are this affair with a dude who thinks he's a chicken but we can't turn in because we need the eggs. It's just the case that there's this guy somewhere who thinks his imaginary chicken is anoher guy who thinks himself a chicken and is laying eggs. Everyone else is actually routing around his freak, mostly ignoring him for good reason and minding their own, immensely more interesting business (unless you're a freakologist or a really, really sick fuck).
Reading other people's mail is statistically going to be a lot more informative, a lot more engrossing and a lot more fun than watching this thing. Not to mention that on the balance of odds you've got a better shot at interacting with art there.
She's not funny. He's not hot. Them's the breaks.———
- 1977, by Woody Allen, with Woody Allen, Diane Keaton. [↩]
- Yes ladies, tits you're born or not born with, but absolutely anyone can get a fabulous piece of ass going. You just have to sacrifice everything else to it. Specifically, your pride, your vanity and your laziness. [↩]
- No ladies, that breathy shit is not singing. Singing comes from your chest, slightly below your heart. If what you're doing isn't coming from your chest, slightly below your heart you're not singing. You're probably braying. [↩]