A lot of my feminists friends question my devotion to Woody Allen, but they can kiss it. Woody’s my favorite American film maker. If you, like me, would rather spend two hours in a dark theater with a movie of Woody’s than do anything else, you might want to check out Mr. Allen’s recent interview with The Onion’s A.V. Club.
I wasn’t too shocked to learn that Woody never watches a picture once he’s done with it. I think many artists and writers (myself included) could learn from his ability to not get caught up in nostalgia:
That’s a pleasure I deny myself, because then you get into nostalgic self-involvement, and I don’t think that would be good for me. I don’t like to reminisce much, and my walls don’t have photographs of me and the actors I was with, or any of that stuff. If you were in my house in New York, you wouldn’t know I was in the movie business. It just looks like a regular house, like the home of a lawyer or something, and I try and keep that disciplined, and just work. There are so many traps you can get into, and looking back on your own work is certainly one of them.
However, Woody’s pessimistic attitude about love kind of saddened me. He didn’t have very positive things to say about love and you can read into that what you will. Of course, he’s discussing love in the context of his current film Vicky Christina Barcelona, but it sure seems like the man whose characters – and, let’s face it, who himself – always recklessly chased love has concluded that, in the end, true love is effusive.
But, maybe I’m reading too much into his answers. Tell me if I am .