USA comedy
1977
color 94 min.
Director: Woody Allen
CLV: out-of-print collectible
           1 disc, catalog # CC1231L
Over the years I have had a recurrent nightmare in which I am summoned
to a large, unfamiliar building in a middle-European satellite country
(Bulgaria, perhaps) to tell the idea of Annie Hall to the
Bulgarian Minister of Green Lights, or whoever he is. The guy heavily
resembles Brezhnev on both his father's and mother's side and speaks
no English and hasn't had his lunch yet; and the deal is, I have to
get him to approve the story; if he doesn't, not only won't the movie
ever get made, but I'll be required to live out my life in a
1950s-style brown Bulgarian suit, working as a clerk in the Bureau of
Cinematic Promises, a vast tomb in the basement containing millions of
unproduced screenplays. The dream never really ends (my nightmares
rarely have satisfying climaxes), it just kind of dissolves into a
tighter and tighter push-in on the impassive face of the listener as
my frantic, shrill voice-over cross-fades into the alarm.
None of the above is, of course, true (I never have nightmares, as I never
sleep); nevertheless, the notion of taking the script of Annie
Hall -- or, more frighteningly, just the idea for the movie -- to
a rational studio head (never mind a Bulgarian) and requesting
millions of dollars to realize it on the screen is sufficient to
induce a kind of nightmarish panic, even years after the movie was
made and released.
Talking to the camera? Breaking the fourth wall?
Cartoons? Atrocity footage? Who's your target audience --
Solzhenitsyn? Come on, guys, what's the story, what happens, who wants
what? Where's the action?
There is no rational reason why the movie
should have been as successful as it was. It violates just about every
formal rule of cinema (and, for that matter, drama) you'd care to
bring up. The Greek unities? Hardly; the story moves around in time
and place more than a Robert Heinlein novel. A strong antagonist,
thwarting the main character at every turn? Not exactly. (The story,
essentially a search for the answer to the question: "Why Did my
Girlfriend Leave Me for Somebody Whose Values are the Total Opposite
of Mine?" is not exactly the equivalent of the quest for the Holy
Grail or even the Lost Ark.) A compelling, intricate plot? Serviceable
might be more appropriate. Stylistic consistency? OK, if you can find
a word to characterize something which contains cartoons, voice-overs,
direct-to-camera monologs and asides, subtitles, black-and-white
archival footage, and special effects; not to mention the expected,
naturalistic scenes of plot and character development. Plus which,
nobody gets killed, nothing explodes, no car is seriously demolished
(just a dented fender in the parking lot). The whole idea seems rather
hopeless.
There were, mercifully, no pitches, no "input", no
meetings other than those between the authors. Woody's contract at
United Artists (a company built on the refreshing premise that a
certain amount of artistic risk is necessary in order to remain in
business) allowed us the necessary leeway for our odd little
conceit. It also didn't hurt that our previous effort, Sleeper, had
achieved a decent success.
How we actually wrote the script is a
matter of some conjecture, even to one who was intimately involved in
its preparation. I recall countless conversations on diverse subjects;
dialogs pirouetting and leaping from the Holocaust to Bertolt Brecht
to Henny Youngman to the Essential Nature of the Novelistic Form,
specifically the Novel of Memory, and is there a Cinematic Equivalent;
to why girls with very large breasts are always sexy no matter
what.
I recall Woody saying, on one occasion, when I expressed some
doubt about the commerciality of the project -- which is to say, did
we want to be associated with something that would bankrupt a very
nice bunch of guys? -- I recall him saying, wisely, that the only sure
thing in life is that you shouldn't repeat yourself; that if you're a
real artist you have to take the leap, and if it turns out to be off a
cliff, at least you can enjoy the view on the way down. Plus which,
he added, the really breakthrough idea -- the one truly worth doing --
is never the one that seems sure-fire; it's invariably the
idiosyncratic idea; the one that's never been tried before, the one
you're a little uncomfortable with. Like, I suppose, Godard with
Breathless: the jump-cutting, violating accepted screen
reality. Or Kubrick, with 2001, that strange, almost-plotless,
oddly-shaped space-mystery (with highly mixed reviews, let us not
forget) which nevertheless turned out to be a watershed for
twenty-five years of science fiction films. Plus which, he went on,
the artistically original idea can also (though not always) be a
commercial breakthrough. So, armed with this prophetic but scary
insight, we plunged ahead.
As to the precise method of work and the
contributions of the two authors: I tended at that time (over a decade
ago) to be more deliberate, concerned with structure, symmetry,
construction: form -- the refuge of the novitiate. Woody would
graciously endure my endless exhortations to logic and plausibility
and then casually suggest that perhaps the way to get the character
out of the room would be, say, to have him flap his arms and fly out
the window.
"But people can't fly by flapping their arms like
pigeons," I'd reply, meaning it. The above exchange is rather
half-baked and does no real justice to the scope of audacity of his
particular imagination -- and of course has nothing to do with
Annie Hall -- but countless exchanges like it taught me an
invaluable lesson, which is, to paraphrase a line of dialog from the
movie: you can be an intellectual and not have the foggiest notion of
what's really important. A movie like Annie Hall obviously
doesn't come from an adherence to Ibsenian structure; what it does
come from is harder to pin down: a wildly original point of view, an
intuitive grasp of what will work onscreen, a healthy impatience for
what's not entertaining, a rage against your basic Sacred Cows and a
need, as Jerry Lewis once said . . . to puncture them.
The first cut of the film was, I recall, about two hours and fifteen
minutes. The release print is 94 minutes, including titles and end
credits. What was excised in the editing process was primarily
material which, while funny (to the authors, anyhow), distracted from
the emerging tale of Annie and Alvy and the pull their relationship
seemed to be exerting on the story. The editing process became a
search for how to use that relationship as a spine on which to hang
all the other observations and material dealing with life as it was
back then in New York, in the rosy '70s. The surprising thing to me
is, after viewing it again: it all seems intentional, each scene
inexorably leading to the next; whole, inevitable in its style and
rhythm. And with an emotional kicker that I'm not sure was ever in the
script. And all this in spite of the deleted forty-five minutes -- a
tribute, I think, as much to Woody's consistency as to Ralph
Rosenblum's editorial expertise.
One thing does seem clear after a decade: as a catalog of broken
rules, the film seems less of a stylistic breakthrough than a summing
up: of attitudes, styles of dialog, dress, even styles of cinema. In
freezing these microscopically accurate embodiments of a particular
sensibility, operating at a particular place and time, the movie
earns, perhaps, some historical significance and a place in the
Criterion catalog.
-- MARSHALL BRICKMAN
(Marshall Brickman co-wrote the screenplay for Annie Hall.)
Credits
Written by: Woody Allen, Marshall Brickman
Directed by: Woody Allen
Produced by: Charles H. Joffe
Executive Producer: Robert Greenhut
Director of Photography: Gordon Willis, A.S.C.
Edited by: Ralph Rosenblum, A.C.E.
Art Director: Mel Bourne
Costume Designer: Ruth Morley
Hairstyles: Romaine Green
Makeup: Fern Buchner
Set Decorations: Robert Drumheller, Justin Scoppa, Jr.
A Jack Rollins-Charles H. Joffe Production
Transfer
This edition of Annie Hall was transferred from a 35mm
interpositive in the correct aspect ratio of 1.85:1. The soundtrack
was mastered from a 35mm magnetic track.