Woody Allen’s autobiography,
Apropros of Nothing, will no doubt be viewed through the lens of accusations that have followed the writer-filmmaker since his bitter breakup with Mia Farrow, when he was found to have been having an affair with one of Farrow’s adopted daughters (to whom he has been married since 1992).
To avoid bogging down this review at the outset, I’ll offer my thoughts about the accusations at the end of this review.
Allen’s book is a breezy and entertaining autobiography told in a conversational manner, full of many of Allen’s trademark one-liners (particularly if you’re familiar with some of his other writings and collections like myself). The account of his early years is particularly fascinating—born to a ne’er do well but devoted father and World War I vet who lived a colorful life that sometimes skirted the edge of the law and a mother from a more respectable family, the two seemed to be a mismatch with the exception of being doting parents.
Allen also makes a pointed effort to separate his onscreen/pop culture persona from real life, and establish his bonafides as a regular guy. While he admits to being a born misanthrope, he acknowledges he actually comes from a loving family who somewhat spoiled and treated him well. And far from being the cowardly, bumbling klutz and intellectual as he sometimes plays in his films, he was athletic and popular, and insists that even today he prefers a beer and watching a basketball game to anything else. He notes that he was a poor student who only decided to appear more cultured and literate to impress the girls. (That said, later in the book he confesses his admiration for Eugene O’Neill and Tennessee Williams and, of course, his love for filmmakers like Ingmar Bergman is well known—hardly lightweights.)
In between playing stickball and movie-going, however, he did find interests that suited his introverted personality: magic, jazz and the clarinet and, of course, his ability to write jokes. As he mentions later in the memoir, he’s never experienced a moment of writer’s block and, by age 16, when he was hired by an ad agency to produce witty one-liners and quotes to be used by clients for the society pages, he could knock off 50 gags a day and was already making more than his parents.
From there, Allen talks about his rise in the entertainment industry—a major break was being selected for a comedy writing development program for NBC. While the program itself proved to be a bust for NBC, Allen grabbed the brass ring and had the good fortune to be mentored and befriended by comedy legends like Danny Simon (brother of Neil Simon), Larry Gelbart and Mel Brooks, working on shows like Sid Caesar's “Your Show of Shows.” From there, he graduated to standup and writing humor pieces for the New Yorker. (The memoir also proved to be a perfect bookend to another outstanding book I recently read on the history of American comedy,
The Comedians: Drunks, Thieves, Scoundrels, and the History of American Comedy, by Kliph Nesteroff, which I read late last year.)
Allen has nothing but praise for most of the people he speaks about and, revealing a modesty and humility that borders on disingenuous, insists that most of his work, particularly his films, have been mediocre at best. The most he can recommend about himself is that he was a hard worker who truly appreciated the people who helped and came before him.
There are some truly touching moments, particularly when he speaks of an older cousin, Rita, from his childhood who took him everywhere with her and her friends though she was a few years older than him; as well as his close relationship with his sister, which he described as “love at first sight,” who similarly became an inseparable friend and companion almost from the very start (she has been his producer for many years). His appreciation for people like Gelbart and Simon, his agents and producers, Charles Joffee and Jack Rollins, fellow comedians like Brooks and Dick Cavett, and the clarinetist who gave him music lessons for $2 an hour, Gene Sedric, are moving and heartfelt.
As he gets into his film years, he tends to breeze through them, mentioning some just in passing, sometimes keeping his comments about the film to a paragraph or even a sentence, usually to praise the actors he worked with and take the blame for any shortcomings. He’s upfront at saying that he has no real technical skills as a filmmaker, leaving it to the professionals, nor any real advice to give, so there isn’t much shop talk in the book.
Of course, a good portion of the book focuses on his relationship with Mia Farrow and the fallout from allegations that he had molested his adopted daughter with Farrow. Then 7 years old, the now 30-something woman has maintained this claim, bolstered both by Farrow and her biological son with Allen, Ronan Farrow.
On the other side of the coin, Allen’s other adopted child with Farrow, Moses Farrow, has risen to Allen’s defense, claiming that the accusations were false and the result of a woman scorned, alleging that Farrow herself was a mother prone to cruel emotional and occasional physical abuse, a charge also supported by Allen’s wife. (It should be added that Farrow’s family has its share of dark secrets—Farrow’s own family appears to have been troubled, with one brother committing suicide and another currently in prison for child sexual abuse; Farrow herself has had three adopted children die under her care, including one who committed suicide, another under mysterious circumstances, and a third for health reasons.)
Allen makes it clear with great detail that not only were charges never brought, but many of those who investigated found no evidence of misconduct and, in some cases, suspected Farrow of “coaching” the children. As for myself personally, at the end of the day, I do believe in Allen’s innocence. First, aside from the findings, such people usually have a history of such behavior and, for Allen, no such allegations have ever emerged before or since. Plus, it needs to be noted that he and his wife were allowed to adopt two baby girls—certainly, I would think if there was cause for genuine concern, the adoptions would never have been approved. Both girls are now adults and appear to maintain a close relationship with their father and mother.
That said, Allen is not entirely without blame. While his relationship with his girlfriend’s adopted daughter (who was a consenting adult at age 22 when they began their relationship) was certainly not illegal, at best it was very poor judgment. And as many have pointed out, Allen’s book in many ways seems to affirm his fascination with young (though not underage) women, often commenting on the good looks of many of the actresses with whom he has worked.
Early in his book, Allen confesses that even at a young age he always appreciated women. At the risk of engaging in armchair psychology, I’ve always had the sense that Allen, particularly with his fear of mortality, simply also values youth and, perhaps, the youth that a younger companion can provide him. To be clear, many of his films have taken on a different cast in retrospect, particularly
Manhattan, where Allen’s character, Isaac, dates a 17-year-old high school student named Tracy (played by Mariel Hemingway). I’ve often found it telling, however, that Tracy seemed to be the most mature person in the story (at least certainly compared to the men).
At last count, Woody Allen has made more than 67 films over his career, often at a clip of one a year—at that rate, it would be improbable, if not impossible, to expect them to be as high a level of a
Manhattan,
Annie Hall or
Hannah and Her Sisters. And he has made many that, if not that good, are certainly just slightly lower tier but still terrific films like
Bullets Over Broadway,
Crimes and Misdemeanors,
Zelig, and
Purple Rose of Cairo. Perhaps the quality of his films have been diluted by the sheer number, but any filmmaker would be lucky to have had such a run and those number of films that stand the test of time.
