I unabashedly admit to being a Woody Allen disciple. Early on, I sought out his movies. Then in 1977, my ardor swelled with Annie Hall. After dragging friends to behold the magic of Diane Keaton and Woody Allen, my mission was to convert my entourage to the distilled essence of this perfect film. In 1979 along came Manhattan, and I swooned for Woody all over again. We college students agreed that Manhattan could only have been filmed in black and white with George Gershwin’s surging music a powerful underpinning to the storyline.
Match Point jarred me; it was such a darker sort of Woody film. Yet it was not when I remembered Hannah and Her Sisters and Stardust Memories. I prefer not to reveal the number of times I have viewed Vicky Christina Barcelona; suffice to say I worship at Woody’s altar.
In 2011, I was front and center to take in Woody’s latest flick, Midnight in Paris. The Cole Porter songs wafting throughout the movie mesmerized me. I remain enraptured of Midnight in Paris and the luminaries of the Lost Generation it evokes.
To Rome With Love opens in New York and Los Angeles today, with me sitting in The Heartland, eating pasta with pesto and fagioli for lunch, but alas, one needs sustenance even when dreaming of Rome. My spirit is channeling you happily in Rome, Woody, even though I believe you are already writing your next film, perhaps set in Venice.
Ciao for now.