Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: FRIDAY, November 25, 1994 TAG: 9411250015
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: STEPHEN HUNTER THE BALTIMORE SUN
DATELINE: NEW YORK LENGTH: Long
For the Woody Allen who bobs into a New York hotel room to discuss his new film, ``Bullets Over Broadway'' (which opened Wednesday), it seems as though one of those bullets has sailed over from Broadway and lodged in his heart. Is he in shock? Will soup do, or does he require oxygen or mouth-to-mouth? Wan and pale, he wears the frightened look of a man being wheeled into Shock Trauma. No loud noises please, nothing to drive him to cover. He seems - why is this so sad? - elderly, perhaps even a bit infirm. A hand he puts out to be shaken lacks even a hint of strength; it's as cold and soft as an unbaked biscuit.
Perhaps it's inevitable. The past few years have not been kind to him. Once alone atop an almost unbelievable pinnacle of critical and public esteem, Allen took a bad tumble in the treacherous and sensationally public battle with his ex-partner in life, Mia Farrow - initially over the issue of his relationship with her adopted daughter, Soon-Yi, then transmuting into something even uglier, a child custody fight over his own child by Farrow, amid charges of child molestation.
At the same time, his artistic career was coming asunder. Released at the height of the scandal, his (very good) film ``Husbands and Wives'' proved a massive box office disappointment. It was one in a series of unpersuasive movies: ``Shadows and Fog,'' ``Alice,'' and ``Manhattan Murder Mystery,'' to name three such.
The public had simply tired of Woody Allen.
Perhaps these woes have crushed him; but they certainly didn't extinguish him. Through it all, he worked. Now, a mere year or so later, he's back before the public with his best movie in years. He may never get to the pinnacle again, but he's trying to put the bad news behind him, one campaign facet of which is his willingness to be cuffed about by reporters - which is why he's here with the eagerness of a man facing the gallows.
``Every 10 years,'' he says bravely, ``I talk to the press. It's not so bad.''
In that same sad spirit, he acknowledges the reason he collaborated with humorist Douglas McGrath for ``Bullets Over Broadway,'' which is not unprecedented but unusual. The explanation is simple, and pathetic:
``I wanted to collaborate. I get lonely, I wanted a change. Every five years I collaborate.''
Even his explanation of how he came to make ``Bullets Over Broadway'' is tinged with rue. To hear him tell it, it was McGrath's idea.
``I showed him a number of cards with ideas on them. He chose the one about the gangster who underwrites a Broadway play in the '20s so that his mistress can get a great role.''
The square, black owl-frame glasses exaggerate the scale of his watery eyes and, while shot with waves of gray, his hair is still recognizeably reddishly autumnal in hue - though a glimpse of skull atop the head suggests late autumn rather than early. The face, lightly festooned with freckles, is still almost preternaturally sensitive: After all, this gentleman almost single-handedly invented sensitivity as a masculine value not only in film culture but in the larger culture as well. And the voice: same thing; a kind of adenoidal tang to it, not quite a whine (though it becomes a whine easily enough), riddled with the same rhythms of doubt and anxiety.
He presents himself as almost unbearably humble, a mere beggar seeking alms, leaning forward as if to cup a reporter's words and bring them up to his ears. He answers in a whisper, without artifice or humor, drop-dead honest.
Even on the subject of talent, he's immensely modest. The subject is also the subject of ``Bullets Over Broadway.'' It's about a playwright who discovers during the production of a play that a Mafioso bodyguard has a native instinct for dramaturgy and dialogue, while he himself is all attitude and platitude. Talent goes where it goes, seems to be the idea.
``To me, that's a very meaningful idea,'' says the 58-year-old Allen. ``It's great to be born with talent, and that you worked hard to develop it. Being proud that your plays aren't produced is nothing to write home about. The only thing that matters is whether you can do the thing, whether its writing or acting.''
Yet it's interesting to learn that he identifies more readily with the untalented wannabe playwright than with the talented gunman.
``I was born with a certain talent,'' he admits. ``But there are people like Ted Williams or Charlie Parker who were effortlessly incredible. That's talent. I had to work very hard.''
He runs from credit like a deer that has just learned that man is in the forest. For example, he's notoriously permissive with his cast, which may be one reason why he attracts such stellar ones - John Cusack, Rob Reiner, Tracey Ullman, Dianne Wiest, Chazz Palminteri, Jennifer Tilly.
``Some of the best things are things they ad-libbed,'' he says. ``I never want them to feel trapped. You hear `lines.' I want the lines to be real. Generally speaking, if you hire good people, they are good at it.''
He's notoriously cost-conscious and film-smart. He's one of the few directors who shoots in long master-takes, never cutting to close-ups and never forcing his actors to do ``coverage'' - that is, to do additional retakes so the camera can cut to them during a scene.
``I always use the same titles from the cheapest black and white title company,'' he says. ``And years back, on `Manhattan,' I decided, partly out of economics, to do away with coverage. So all my shots are long masters.
``It's much more economical, and I don't have the patience to do things over and over. And finally, the actors love it. They don't have to match anything. Then the movie takes three days to edit.
``The actors enjoy it and I enjoy it. They're so relieved. When I did `Hannah and Her Sisters,' Michael Caine said to me that someone had given him some very good advice. `Don't save your best stuff for close-ups,' he'd been told, because `He doesn't do close-ups.' ''
So things are looking up. The movie's getting great reviews. The reporters ask no embarrassing questions about ... you know. ``For an infinitely pessimistic person,'' he says, ``I am surprisingly optimistic. I still have faith. If I didn't, I'd kill myself.''
by CNB