LOOK, I’M WOODY. HOWDY, HOWDY, HOWDY.
Starring Diane Keaton
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Watching these things backwards is the right way to go, witnessing a steady climb from ass to class. However, that’s not to say there aren’t any road blocks, in this case a kooky bullet sent from the past to create an unfavourable-comparisons crisis in the early nineties. Ask anyone walking out of a Seth Rogen film what they know about Woody Allen and they’ll mention Diane Keaton and Annie Hall. Ask anyone coming out of Transformers: Dark of the Moon and they’ll claw at your hands, begging you to rip out their eyes and bury them as quickly as you can to make the pain go away. Annie’s the one, apparently. It’s the film that made the world grasp this struggling, sweating man to its collective bosom and love him, and tell him everything was all right and that he was a genius all along. Diane Keaton played a huge part in that, riffing off him and pushing him further, generally being an oddball muse with talent to burn and a face hewn out of beauty rock. She’s his walking Golden Age, his happy memories, his artistic conscience wrapped into some odd clothing choices, all of which makes Manhattan Murder Mystery a lot shit. It’s entirely Allen’s fault again; after he fucked up his relationship with Mia Farrow Keaton stepped into the role of Grandma Nancy Drew, instantly becoming the best thing in a film loaded with crap. She jumps headfirst into the babbling script and ridiculous scenarios, giving it her all and making Woody look like a nonsensical, valiumed-up moron for the duration of the run time.
Keaton’s appearance drags the film down into something more horrible than a bad movie, something that this blog can’t really comment on having not seen the partnership in its glory years yet. But even with a vague awareness of his seventies greatness you can see why Allen’s old school fans resent his recent output; because of this film, because of its dickbag characters, it’s endless ditzy bickering, it’s daring to use ‘Manhattan’ in the title. Keaton brings with her a direct reference to Allen’s glory years as a director, and having her show up in one of his lesser pieces demeans their relationship and their work together. You can never go back.
Christ, it’s meant to be a light-hearted mystery romp. Alright, the Lady From Shanghai homage drags up a smirk. But that’s it. Go home, show’s over, come back in ’77.
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