Woody Allen's latest raises more questions than a four-year-old in a sex-shop. It's about a writer who fictionalizes all the people in his life, creating still recognizable monsters of them. We get to see both versions, and it's hard to say which one is worse - the real friend/lover/ex-wife of Woody/Block or the novelized version. It's easy to understand why none of them like Block, and watching the umbilocentric (a fancy word for self-centered and selfish) writer doesn't make us like him any more than his ex-wives do.
The movie did little more to me than making me feel like one of those ex-wives. Go away, I kept saying, go away and leave me alone - I've had enough of you, Woody. Enough, do you hear? And don't you dare portray me as a monster!
See. It's not a pretty picture.
Allen's career is extensive enough that we're beginning to see a
pattern. He does not play well with others. Whenever he gets in a
snit and makes a movie to show us how he suffers, he is insufferable.
And this is his worst movie since Stardust Memories. It's what I
call the Eight and a Laugh syndrome: nobody understands me because
I'm too funny. No, Woody, we all understand. You're just better
when you're directing a story that is not yours. Yours is not
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