Woody, I salute you, but I miss you.

Nothing beats Sleeper.

Nothing beats Sleeper.

Woody Allen was perhaps, besides any of my family members, my first hero, and I am proud to say so. Not Batman or Superman or Fatman or Pooperman. Woody Allen. From the moment I first set eyes on him in Sleeper (in my opinion his best work yet) and then read his attempts at Getting Even , through Bananas, Annie Hall, Zelig, Side Effects, Love and Death, I saw him as someone to whom one could look up. Now perhaps not literally, but still, each time I see his early work I want to hug him. No, I can’t say early work exclusively, because even as late as Everyone Says I Love You and Small Time Crooks has he demonstrated that being funny works. Lately he seems to have given up on the whole humour thing and that acting business. He can only direct well when he’s in the film! I can’t get enough of the neurotic New Yorker – a genius in small clothing – who rambles and witticises his way through life, which for him, is nothing short of a joke, something I believe everyone should recognise. So what if he’s in love with a woman half his age? At least he has the ability to love, to give and to receive love. He is not a monster for loving. Boo and poo to the media and to Mia Farrow and to his son Satchel (or Ronan or whichever of his middle names he’s going to use next) for making him out to be one. Little Woodykins is the absolute opposite of a monster. Whatever happened to the seductive neo-Groucho who would play on words and his clarinet simultaneously to have women swoon over him? I remember reading an interview in which he mentioned that he doesn’t act in his films because he is now too old to “get the girl”. Sorry, Woody, but you can never be too old for anything. Especially when it happens in a film. And you can definitely not be too old to be humorous.
Come back, Woody. Please.


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