IMDb #183 Review: Annie Hall (1977)

Source: Wikipedia

Here we intrude upon the mating habits of neurotic entertainers. Or, more accurately: Woody Allen's no-really-it's-not-my-autobiography, part one of infinity.

We follow a paranoid comedian whose neuroses pervade time and space, penetrating the fourth wall itself. He babbles eloquent drivel to anyone who'll listen, including the camera, which peers into awkward moments from his childhood and adolescence through an adult lens.

An over-educated imbecile--he casually references classic literature to gripe about daily annoyances. An insecure nymphomaniac--as he's about to get laid, he frets about JFK assassination conspiracies. A stubborn hypochondriac--he worries about his health, but insists on living in New York City, and instead has visited the same psychoanalyst for thirty years.

How he wins any woman's affections is a mystery; how he keeps them around is less so. They have a higher turnover rate than the targets of his rants.

As for his romance with the titular Annie Hall, the chronicle of their relationship begins at the end: the anticlimactic breakup. Knowing the bleak outcome, we transition directly to the awkward introduction on tennis court, then to the courtship of these quirky, needy people. They bond over Freud and vigorous fornication and totally-not-Woody's various obsessions. Subtitles offer unsolicited insight into their private thoughts.

Wile he's criticizing everything in range and deliberately not enjoying life, she's moving up in her career. This understandably scares him enough to reconsider their relationship.

The timeline can be as difficult to follow as it is to care about these unlikable fake people. But underneath all the knots and layers, the film's got real heart. Twisted and cynical and buried deep under tangles of artistry, but it is there.

93 minutes.