He is as famous as the Brooklyn Bridge: a neurotic nebbish, tied to a clever muse (Diane Keaton, say, or Scarlett Johansson). After some overreaching (the “spare” tragedies of September and Interiors), and some lovely reminiscing (Radio Days), it’s clear to me that Woody wants to be someone else.
Ingmar Bergman.
Allen strains for tastefulness. Like Mel Brooks, a fellow Jew and comic-turned-director who riffs on movies and genres, Allen was irreverent at first, his appropriations fond and funny. Nowadays he takes himself a bit more seriously. Morality and the modern intellectual idiot tend to be his subjects. Sporting the Merchant-Ivory virus, he’s pseudo-classicist. He might be too old for his time.
Zelig said much: The folly of freaks who want to fit in, fitting in because they don’t — Woody’s take on Hollywood and Self. And Tinseltown loves him. His mid-sized movies make just enough money. His dialogue (his resume) makes actors pant.
Still, there is no daring. It flew the coop a long time ago…
But Mighty Aphrodite and Bullets Over Broadway do feel like jabs from a hungry young man.