Apropos of Nothing: Woody Allen’s View from the Top

Back in the day, I knew a journalist who had a crush on Woody Allen, and joined a club with others similarly besotted. Witty and smart, this bespectacled nerd made them laugh, and that was sexy. Cut to Woody Allen today, a man in his ‘80’s trying to clear his name. His new book, Apropos of Nothing, is already a scandal because one publishing house coup caused a cancellation, to another’s gain. Hachette employees walked out in protest, leaving the publication to Arcade/ Skyhorse. Chalk it up to a knee jerk conclusion of guilt in the #metoo moment: a relapse of Woody Allen’s continued battle in courts of public opinion on the case of his having abused his daughter Dylan. You know the story. It’s complicated. A family rift. A woman’s revenge. In Apropos of Nothing, he tells his side: logical, clear, bewildered that his reputation remains besmirched after much investigation, his work boycotted in the America that gave it birth. If that were all, you might not want to read Apropos of Nothing. On the other hand, one of our most unique filmmakers also tells tales of his life, loves, craft and Manhattan real estate, offering a laugh-out-loud penthouse perspective: Brooklyn boy rises to the top.

Dreaming of the suave sophistication of movie stars of this youth, Woody Allen grew up in parts of Midwood that were provincial yet nurturing. He loved sports, magic, jazz and girls. A man of his era, like say Philip Roth, he could caricature his mother, teachers, women of authority, with Freudian ferocity, gauging the rise of testosterone: pretty classmates vs. his insecurities. His early years revealed in the tempo of traditional stand up, make a fun read. Heroes like Bob Hope, Fred Astaire, neatly named, Apropos is apropos of a who’s who of 20^th century greats, and his shtick on his women is wonderful, particularly Louise Lasser, his second wife, and Diane Keaton, a lover and muse, and friendships with leading ladies such as Scarlett Johansson and even Mia Farrow. Overloaded with the words “lovely” and “charming,” he describes Farrow as actress and companion, careful to be merely factual in his presentation of her case against him. He saves his opinions for the food at Elaine’s, the celebrity eatery where the same tortellini, a sole edible choice, could vary in price night to night. One of the funniest shticks is his own attempt at cooking.

He had a great friendship with his producer Jean Doumanian, “until I sued her.” He dead pans. And here I find the least conclusive of his reflections. I think he’s still clueless why she and her boyfriend Jacqui Safra dropped him. Over the years, celebrating many an opening of his films, always an event, I glimpsed Woody, a cameo appearance at his own premieres. I sat at a table as close to Woody playing clarinet as I am to my laptop now at the Café Carlyle; yes, he performs without affect. Last fall, at a screening of the documentary One Child Nation, he attended with his wife Soon-Yi. I told him I heard his new film, Rainy Day in New York, was terrific, and I can’t wait to see it. “You’ll have to go to Europe,” he said ruefully, peering out from under his hat. I feel about that as I do about this book: It’ll be worth the trip.