LOOK, I’M WOODY. HOWDY, HOWDY, HOWDY.
Starring Woody Allen
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Oh Good God, this is even worse. It’s a period screwball-comedy-thing set in the 1940s and everything’s terrible. He’s dragged in Dan Ackroyd and his face is melting into his chest, and he just looks upset. Ackroyd, not Woody. This is one of the only films where Allen admits that he fucked up, suggesting that it might have been better to cast another actor in the lead role instead of resuming his own bumbling anal-retentive shtick in a film noir setting. He’s damn right. It’s another one of his comedies where everyone involved looks slightly uncomfortable with the material because it’s ropey and unfit for purpose, built on the flimsiest hypnotism plot and threaded through with inanities and out-of-date observations. There’s a lot to be said for Allen’s individualism: in an era of factory-deficient sperm joke Apatow rip-offs it’s heartening to find a jazz-scored spoof of movies that most of today’s generation have never even heard of. But that doesn’t make it good. It doesn’t make it funny, and it doesn’t make it worth sitting through. It’s like a puffin – you’re glad it’s in the world, but when was the last time a puffin gave you a hernia through laughing too hard? When was the last time a puffin picked your kids up from school? They only do anything for David Attenborough anyway, and unless he’s a big fan of Allen’s post millennial output, then this analogy is going nowhere. Like the film! LIKE THE FILM!
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