Another Woman (Woody Allen, 1988).
Between 1985 and 1989, Woody Allen made six feature films, constituting what is probably his most consistent period. The Purple Rose of Cairo (1985), Hannah and her Sisters (1986), Radio Days (1987) and Crimes and Misdemeanors (1989) are among his best pictures. During this time, Allen also indulged his tendency towards laugh-free drama: September (1987) and Another Woman (1988). They are more successful attempts than the loathed Interiors (1978).
Another Woman was Allen’s third consecutive sabatical from acting (and there are no obvious Woody Allen proxies). It is an introspective chamber drama about a woman re-evaluating her life through flashbacks and subjective fantasy scenes. Wild Strawberries seems to have been a key influence on the structure of this movie – as it was on Alice (1990) and Deconstructing Harry (1997).
Marion Post (Gena Rowlands) has rented a private apartment for the purpose of writing a book. The opening scene at Marion’s desk is extremely similar to the opening of Wild Strawberries. The camera pans over family photos as we hear Marion’s very expository narration: “My name is Marion Post. I’m director of undergraduate studies in philosophy at a very fine women’s college, although right now I’m on leave of absence to begin writing a book. My husband is a very accomplished physician, a cardiologist, who some years ago examined my heart, liked what he saw, and proposed. It’s the second marriage for both of us….”
Marion is distracted by sounds from a neighbouring psychiatrist’s office coming through a ventilation shaft. She overhears the tearful confessions of a pregnant woman (Mia Farrow). This is the catalyst for a mid-life crisis. We learn of Marion’s guilt over an abortion she had when very young (she fell pregnant to her college professor, who later committed suicide). She discovers her husband’s infidelity with a friend. She remembers Larry Lewis (Gene Hackman) and finally reads from Larry’s novel based on their never consummated relationship. An orchestral arrangement of Erik Satie’s 1st Gymnopédie plays over a montage of illustrative scenes. Marion reads:
“Hlenka and I accidentally ran into one another one day while we were both buying tickets to a concert. I knew her because she was the lover of a man I knew quite well. Recently they had decided to marry. This was a catastrophy for me personally because from the first moment he’d introduced me to her I was in love with her.
“I convinced her to have a drink with me. It was the only time I’d ever been alone with her since we met. She was lovely, and I spoke too much and too rapidly because I was embarrassed over my feelings toward her, which I felt were painfully obvious. We walked around in Central Park and talked about lots of things. I told her about a book I was planning to write, and my wanting to live out West. She spoke enthusiastically about her upcoming marriage, but I thought it was too enthusiastic, as if she was trying to convince herself rather than me.
“Soon it began to rain. We ducked into an underpass to avoid the cloudburst. I remember thinking how wonderful she was and how beautiful she looked at that moment, and I wanted to tell her so many things because my feelings were swirling so. And I think she knew everything and that frightened her, and yet some strange instinct told me that if I kissed her she would respond. Her kiss was full of desire and I knew I couldn’t share that feeling with anyone else. And then a wall went up and just as quickly I was screened out. But it was too late because I now knew that she was capable of intense passion if she would one day just allow herself to feel.”
If this reads badly here (as it would in a novel), it is moving on screen:
Marion reflects: “I closed the book and felt the strange mixture of wistfulness and hope. And I wondered if a memory is something you have or something you’ve lost. For the first time in a long time, I felt at peace.”
You might roll your eyes at the prospect of yet another middle-period Woody Allen movie about middle-aged, upper-bourgeois, tweed-suited, wine-sipping Manhattan WASP intellectuals with relationship problems. There is no hint of satire here, and the milieu never feels quite right: it is an idealised world of sophistication where people read Rilke and have conversations about the meaning of art, etc. Perhaps it exists in Bergman’s Sweden, but it is less convincing when translated to 1980s New York (I wager you’re more likely to have found that crowd discussing real estate). The consistent flaws in Allen’s dramatic writing – unnatural expository dialogue, characters who speak their feelings directly rather than demonstrate them through action – are here in force.
Adding to the Bergmanesque mood, Allen hired the late Sven Nykvist, who later shot ‘Oedipus Wrecks’ from New York Stories (1989), Crimes and Misdemeanors, and Celebrity (1998). Another Woman’s colour palate is very bleak: stark white/grey apartments, grey and brown clothes, and New York’s overcast autumn weather. There is undeniable poetry in these images that remain in the memory.
In John Baxter’s biography Allen is said to have described Marion as “the character, who of all those in his work, most resembled him intellectually.” This is also the sort of film that founded Allen’s short-lived reputation as a writer of interesting female characters. The excellent ensemble cast includes Ian Holm as Marion’s weak husband, Martha Plimpton, Blythe Danner, John Houseman and Philip Bosco.
Allen makes no concessions here to commercial filmmaking. Another Woman generated less than US$2m at the domestic box office. Those who do make the decision to delve into what may be the most obscure of his works will be rewarded.
[Original review: 17 June 2002; revised: 17 April 2008]
Posted by matthewasprey 
Posted by matthewasprey 
