Woody Allen’s A Rainy Day in New York

Woody Allen is just as creepy now as he was when he won his fourth Oscar for Midnight in Paris. In recent years, he has been dogged by molestation accusations, but since Allen’s son Moses disputes his sister’s allegations and two investigations either found insufficient evidence for a charge or concluded the events in question did not happen, most sane people would be reluctant to offer an opinion of their own on such a murky, contested issue. However, these are not sane times. The truth is we have no idea whether Allen did what he is accused of and neither do you, (whereas we know with absolute certainty Polanski committed and pled guilty to the crime that made him a fugitive).

So, that’s all very awkward, but if you want to vent moral indignation, the concentration camps in Xinjiang or the abduction of the Hong Kong 12 are clear-cut targets of worthy outrage. Whereas, if you enjoyed Woody Allen films during less over-heated times, his long-delayed A Rainy Day in New York is pretty much like all the other ones. After his first distributor caved to mob-pressure, Allen’s A Rainy Day in New York finally opens this Friday in the U.S., but not in Allen’s beloved New York, because theaters are closed here, perhaps permanently.

Allen-surrogate Gatsby Welles is a bright young man, but he had to transfer to Yardley, a sheltered liberal arts college, because Ivy League schools were too unstructured for him. (I was going to joke Welles was originally called Orson Hemingway in an earlier draft, but that actually sounds less pretentious.) Welles still isn’t studying much, but he gets by academically and enjoys romancing his naïve girlfriend Asheigh Enright, from the wild backcountry of Tucson, Arizona (believe it or not, they have a symphony and an opera company there, but this film was intended for Manhattan snobs, so it doesn’t matter).

When the campus paper assigns Enright an interview with tormented indie director Roland Pollard, Welles tags along, to show her the City. Inevitably, Welles gets frustrated and jealous when the smitten Pollard stretches out the one-hour interview with a special screening and a supplemental interview with his equally neurotic screenwriter, Ted Davidoff. Instead, Welles spends the day, off-on-on, with Chan Tyrell, the whip-smart younger sister of his old girlfriend. All those romantic cliches he wanted to do with Enright he does with Tyrell—and its not bad.

Timothee Chalamet apologized to everyone in Hollywood for making this film, but he really should have apologized to Allen for being so shticky and affected playing Welles. This character is supposed to be a Ferris Bueller of Park Avenue, but he is never comfortable in Welles’ retro hipster skin—and his crooning voice is pathetic. Likewise, Elle Fanning is downright cringe-inducing as the air-headed Enright. On the other hand, Selena Gomez takes command of every scene she has as Tyrell, through the warmth of her charm and her intelligent good humor.

Liev Schreiber (the scourge of auto-correct features) is drolly amusing portraying Pollard, the anxiety-ridden, self-destructive but prolific filmmaker. You have to wonder who he could have looked to for inspiration while filming his scenes. Jude Law nicely plays against type as the nebbish Davidoff. Yet, it is Cherry Jones who steals the picture with her unforgettable third act scene portraying Welles’ surprisingly cool grand society mother.

Fading Gigolo: John Turturro, Ladies Man

You cannot get by in New York with part-time floral arrangement work. Yet, as a vocation, it probably means poor struggling Fioravante is a sensitive soul, who is good with his hands. His cash-strapped former boss hatches an unlikely scheme to capitalize on those talents in John Turturro’s Fading Gigolo (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Murray Schwartz’s antiquarian bookstore had been in his family for years, but it did not survive the neurotic Upper Eastsider’s mismanagement. Fortunately, Schwartz’s wife still has a job, but his longtime clerk Fioravante is scuffling to make ends meets. A trip to his dermatologist gives Schwartz an idea so crazy, it just might work. Evidently, the cougarish Dr. Parker and her BFF Selima are looking for a man’s services. Frankly, they would prefer someone who is mature and less intimidating than the stereotypical boy toy type. Reluctantly (and rather skeptically), Fioravante agrees to let Schwartz pimp him out to his high class clientele.

Naturally, Fioravante is a hit with the well heeled ladies, because what woman wouldn’t lust after John Turturro? However, things will get complicated when Schwartz seeks the delousing services of a widow in the Brooklyn Hasidic community. Picking up on Avigal’s loneliness as she picks through his step-child’s hair, Schwartz convinces her to try Fioravante’s services. While their meeting is downright chaste by his recent standards, it would still be considered scandalous within her community. Further complicating matters, Fioravante and his new client start developing confusing feelings for each other. Her out-of-character trips to Manhattan also attract the suspicions of Dovi, the Orthodox neighborhood patrolman, who has long carried a torch for her.

Frankly, Fading is the sort of Woody Allen movie Allen ought to be making, but isn’t. It is a wistfully mature film, deeply steeped in an elegant sadness. The notion of writer-director Turturro casting himself as the illicit lover of Sharon Stone and Sofia Vergara might seem self-serving, but the aging average Joe-ness of Fioravante is part of the point. It is his comfort with intimacy that makes Fioravante desirable. If anything, Fading is old school Alan Alda sensitivity porn rather than a vehicle for people doing it like rabbits.

Turturro shows a remarkable deft touch as a director, patiently letting his scenes unfold. He gets a key assist from the jazz soundtrack, which includes several seductions from boss tenor Gene Ammons. Jug had a seductive sound that could get anyone to say “yes,” but it also perfectly suits the sophisticated New York milieu.

Allen does his shtick as Schwartz, but it is funny more often than not. Yet, it is Turturro who quietly commands the screen as Fioravante, a sad clown incapable of acting less than chivalrous. He develops some achingly powerful chemistry with Vanessa Paradis in her first English language role as Avigal. Their scenes together are a reminder how dramatically potent denial and yearning can be on-screen.

Likewise, Liev Schreiber could not possibly be any more earnest as the lovesick Dovi. Stone and Vergara certainly look the parts of Fioravante’s clients, but never come close to exposing the inner depths of their souls. In a small supporting role, Bob Balaban nearly steals the show as Schwartz’s lawyer, Sol. In fact, Fading is well stocked with brief but neatly turned performances, including Loan Chabanol as a French expat who makes a strong impression late in the game.

Absolutely never smarmy, Fading is an emotionally intelligent film intended for an adult audience. It should satisfy all of Woody Allen’s fans, but Turturro gives it his own distinctive stamp. Highly recommended, Fading Gigolo opens this Friday (4/18) in New York at the Angelika Film Center and the UES’s City Cinemas 1, 2, 3.

Woody Allen: A Documentary

If being neurotic is an art form than Woody Allen is Michelangelo. Film is definitely his canvas. Recently, Allen followed up one of his worst received films with his biggest hit ever (thanks to an assist from inflation). Emmy winning filmmaker Robert Weide was able to capture the idiosyncratic auteur at work on both for his in-depth two-part profile Woody Allen: A Documentary (promo here), which premieres this coming Sunday and Monday nights on PBS’s American Masters.

Frankly, anyone who knows anything about Woody Allen will be shocked he granted Weide such intimate access and consented to so many on-camera interviews. He is no publicity hound. Despite twenty-one Oscar nominations and three wins, Allen has never attended the Academy Awards, preferring his regular Monday night playing New Orleans-style jazz clarinet at the Café Carlyle. You have to respect his priorities.

Perhaps Allen is finally starting to seriously consider posterity. He opens up to a surprising extent about certain things, such as his early family life. However, this is not exactly Everything You Ever Wanted to Know About Woody Allen but were Afraid to Ask. Weide duly broaches the subject of his notorious split from Mia Farrow, but he does so rather gingerly. Indeed, he never presses Allen on the propriety of carrying on a sexual relationship with the daughter of his de-facto (if not technically legal) wife. Nor does Weide ask Allen what the heck he was thinking casting Kenneth Branagh in Celebrity.

Despite overlooking that artistic nadir, Weide’s Documentary is strongest when addressing Allen’s voluminous filmography. While the compulsive work ethic and insistence on total artistic control are well established, Weide challenges the notion Allen has always been a sheltered art-house flower, clearly establishing Annie Hall and Manhattan were about as mainstream successful as films get.

Allen also offers a number of insights into the creation and execution of his major works. To nobody’s surprise, Mia Farrow does not appear in the documentary. However, Diane Keaton is a major voice in the film. Some of the best commentary though, comes from Mariel Hemingway. Weide also shrewdly includes a nice taste of its lush Gershwin soundtrack as well as several other standards heard in various Allen films, like “Sing, Sing, Sing” throughout the two installments. Indeed, Manhattan will probably be the film that spikes the most at Netflix after the documentary airs (if they are still around on Tuesday).

Considering Allen’s remarkable career rebound with Midnight in Paris, it is somewhat surprising Weide’s Documentary did not have an earlier life on the New York film festival circuit. Smartly assembled, it compares favorably with Martin Scorsese’s George Harrison: Living in the Material World. It covers Allen’s films, music, and stand-up quite credibly, even adding some brief nudity from Ingmar Bergman’s Monika as a bonus. Even if it keeps some of his warts under wraps, Weide’s Documentary is often fascinating (though it can never top the mother of all awkward family homecomings in Barbara Kopple’s Wild Man Blues), definitely recommended for movie lovers and Allen fans when parts one and two air on PBS this Sunday (11/20) and Monday (11/21).

(Photos: courtesy of Brian Hamill/©MGM)