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Allen is a twice-divorced sitcom writer, currently dating a comely 17-year-old high school student (Mariel Hemingway) while juggling the stresses at work and keeping up with his social obligations. In addition to that, he’s developing a crush on his best friend’s “cerebral” mistress (Diane Keaton) and sparring with his lesbian ex-wife (Meryl Streep) who is writing a tell-all biography about their marriage (and how he tried to “run over” her wife). Out of all the films I have seen by Allen, this just might be my favorite. Manhattan is not all about gags and pranks, or at least not physical ones, but more in a sense of spoken and expressed escapades. Allen is very focused on displaying and sharing his city, not exploiting it; not only is his talent an offering that has originated from the city as well, but his visuals—adroitly embraced and recorded by Gordon Willis in an elegant and indulgent b&w stock, and stretching from end to end in widescreen—encompass the major, the sites that the tourists would hit, but also the minor, which only a native or fanatic would be privy to. Whatever he doesn’t get around to showing (unlike the thunderstorm and subsequent segue into the planetarium, which was one of my favorite scenes, quite familiar with the pathway exiting onto Central Park West and 81st), Allen makes sure to trumpet and gush over with arrow-pointed words (the annual Shakespeare in the Park). Manhattan could easily be his most mature work, because in his clear stream of progression and intent, he doesn’t trip himself up or rattle on aimlessly to nettlesome lengths like he often can. Co-written with Marshall Brickman (who was a better team in creating Sleeper than Mickey Rose was in collaboration with Bananas), this is Allen’s most mellifluous, fervent dialogue with each line pierced and tinged with biting hilarity (“Years ago I wrote a short story about my mother called ‘The Castrating Zionist,’” or “I could tell by your voice, it was very authoritative—like the pope or the computer in 2001,” or “I internalize things—I can’t explain it, I grow a tumor instead,” or “You think you’re God”/ “I gotta model myself after someone”), and throughout the whole running-time, it never loses its grasp. I can easily say that I didn’t want it to end where it did, or would gladly embrace a sequel (I think Jack Mathews expressed a similar desire after reviewing The Curse of the Jade Scorpion), but all of the characters and interior/exterior settings and emotions are uncluttered and unobscured. Allen and Hemingway share some truly tender and romantic moments that often seem missing or at least partially artificial in similar situations in Allen’s films, and the two of them establish an excellent chemistry and validity. The sweet-voiced Hemingway is so spry and refreshing, not overly naïve or put-on, but rather striking all the right notes forcefully or gently when such is required. Keaton also makes for a lot of fun, relishing the position of the pseudointellectual always naysaying other people’s positives and praising the humbugged. She is also used more effectively than in Sleeper, though the silly quagmires she and Allen found themselves in then was surely not devoid of any fun or laughs. With this film, Allen was not only on top of Manhattan, but he was on top of the world!

With Michael Murphy and Anne Byrne.

Final Verdict: A+.

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originally posted: 11/10/01 05:21:41
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