Pretend it was the pre-Covid New York City

In Pretend It’s a City, Netflix’s new seven-part series about famed New York raconteur and wit Fran Lebowitz (the first time I’ve binge watched a Netflix series) all I could think about was the irony of the subject matter. Lebowitz, for those who may not know, made a huge splash back, oh, some 40 years ago with books Metropolitan Life and Social Studies. A sort of modern-day Dorothy Parker and Oscar Wilde (she even looks like him) rolled into one, Lebowitz offered her observations on the mores and morals of contemporary society. With her acerbic wit it wasn’t always pleasant, at least for those she targeted. But in many ways, she was so right on. Now. finally, there is a video series about her, an enduring (though not endearing) character who still pops up on late night TV and the lecture circuit. Lebowitz is as wittily observant as ever. The problem is this series is meant to be a paean to New York. Unfortunately, it was recorded in 2019 on the verge of the Covid-19 pandemic. Releasing it now screams irony. In the series, Fran is both dissing on NY’s absurd idiosyncrasies and praising the city’s enduring characteristics, a place like no other. But Covid has now turned NYC into a ghost town, slaughtered thousands of people, decimated its storied restaurant and cultural scenes, and turned bustling streets into desolate alley ways. Despite this untimely incredible irony, the series is worth watching because it’s still, well, all about Fran, and Lebowitz is unceasingly interesting, no matter the context. The series' “Pretend” title? It's the scoffing remark Lebowitz, the diehard New Yorker, made to the scads of (then) tourists who stopped mid-sidewalk to admire buildings. “Pretend it’s a city!” she'll scold. Her buddy, acclaimed filmmaker Martin Scorsese, who produced the series, interviews Fran at Manhattan’s The Players Club. Her bon mots are interspersed with scenes of Fran walking around the city, often stopping to look at the little-known bronze plaques embedded in sidewalks in front of major landmarks. Lebowitz has always come off as, er, politically incorrect. Though a political liberal she takes aim at a myriad of so-called progressive ideas: her abhorrence for turning streets into patios, and ubiquitous cyclists. “It’s an astonishment to me that everyday tens of thousands of people aren’t slaughtered in the streets of New York." On cellphone users (she doesn't own): “The only person looking where she’s going is me.” On her anger at NY spending millions on subway station art when the rickety subway itself is falling apart. Beyond her city observations, Lebowitz delves into culture, sports and other subjects. On smoking bans: “Do you know what artists sitting around in bars and restaurants talking and drinking and smoking is called? The history of art.” Fran also “hates” sports. She mocks fans who personify their teams. “’We Won!’...They won, you lay on the sofa drinking beer.” Watching the series is like having a pitcher of cold water splashed in your face as Lebowitz buzzsaws through contemporary fads and accepted wisdom. Pretend It’s a City is music for the ears and balm for the eyes of a – with Covid-19, possibly long gone? – New York City.

A 'Rear Window' on to the human experience

 So, I watched for, um, maybe the 15th time, my favorite Alfred Hitchcock movie, 1954’s Rear Window. I learned from TCM host Dave Karger that the film, set quite convincingly in Lower Manhattan, actually used the biggest Paramount set ever built – with some 60 apartments - to create the downtown New York vibe. The film resonates with lots of wider themes about urban alienation and Peeping Toms or neighborly “spying” (maybe some of that is going on during Covid-19?). And it’s also a love story between Jeff Jefferies (James Stewart) and Lisa Fremont (Grace Kelly – was there ever a more beautiful woman?). But the nub of the story is of course a murder mystery. The “Peeping Tom” in this case is Jefferies, holed up in his apartment with a broken leg after being injured as a photojournalist shooting a car race, his camera also convincingly smashed. Jefferies’ apartment overlooks a courtyard surrounded by various apartment buildings offering a bird’s eye view of its colorful inhabitants. Hence, with not much better to do, Jefferies finds himself following the actions of his neighbors. Admonishes his caregiver, Stella (Thelma Ritter) in homespun wisdom, “we’ve become a race of Peeping Toms.” The neighbors in fact make a fanciful collage: Miss Toros (Georgine Darcy) a shapely dancer, Miss Lonelyhearts (Judith Evelyn) who can’t find a man, the frustrated songwriter (Ross Bagdasarian), and Lars Thorwald (Raymond Burr). It is Thorwald who most piques Jefferies interest. One day Thorwald’s invalid wife is in the apartment and the next day she isn’t. And Thorwald is seen carrying out various suitcases.  Yes, the murder mystery is the film’s nub. But it’s the overall atmosphere and sub stories which, for me, are just as interesting and make the film. This studio set has all the earmarks of a real neighborhood, with the rumble of traffic on the streets, children's playing voices, music streaming from open windows, even ships’ horns throbbing from New York harbor. Most noticeable is the composer’s scores and other songs (Mona Lisa, To See You Is to Love You, That’s Amore) but always indistinctly echoing from a distance. Franz Waxman’s opening and closing swirling jazz score is playful yet mysterious. And the intriguing sub stories? Miss Lonelyhearts – neurotic there is no man in her life with her make believe and ill-fated dates. Miss Toros – the shapely beauty whose true love is not anyone you might expect but is only oh so true. The songwriter character is at turns frustrated yet a bonhomie. And then there is the yin yang of Jefferies and Fremont’s relationship. She, a fashionista and toast of Park Avenue and he, a dungaree wearing globe trotting photographer. ”Those high heels, they’ll be a hit in the jungle,” he scoffs at her seeming incompatibility. So, while Rear Window is a murder mystery it works on a much wider scale, depicting the tapestry of life – human successes and failures, the juxtaposition of character types - all surrounded by the quotidian of daily experience.   

Woody's memoir insightful, honest, a joyful ramble

Filmmaking is “not rocket science” Woody Allen says in his new book Apropos of Nothing (Arcade Publishing). In it, Allen takes numerous digs at himself and his chosen profession. But first you must understand he’s anything but an intellectual. Though beloved by the artsy set – and after all most of his films have some “intellectual” component whether quoting philosophers or musing on the more esoteric qualities of life – Allen dispenses of any pretense. He calls such a description “phony” for he has “no intellectual neuron in my head.” He’s considered an egghead because he wears “black horn-rimmed glasses” and has a “flair for appropriate snippets from erudite sources too deep for me.” Admittedly Allen did dip into the Great Books but pleads it was only “so I wouldn’t seem a dodo to the women I liked.” Allen, one of the greatest directors of our times, is befuddled by his own stature. He likens his “genius” to the head of the local PTA, hardly the level of a Mozart. Personality wise he is “extremely uninteresting, shallow and disappointing.” What, prey tell, about his film technique? “I shoot carelessly and irresponsibly" and his acuity is that “of a failed ejected film major.” So how does he actually create his films? He simply intuitively knows what he likes and shoots it. He never does rehearsals. He works 9 to 5, usually with one scene takes, so everyone can go home – or to the former restaurant Elaine’s – for dinner. He never watches his films once they’re complete. He just moves on to the next project and artistic challenge. He is amazed that someone like film great Italian director Fellini would want to meet a “schmuck like me.”  You’d be surprised what Allen thinks of his films. Manhattan (1979), a huge hit, he wanted to “scrap.” The praise for Annie Hall (1977) made him “suspect of its quality.” Yet a less praised film like Stardust Memories (1980) “gave me a great sense of achievement.” About 75 pages is given over to the infamous allegations of sex abuse of Mia Farrow’s adopted child Dylan. He rests his innocence on two police investigations, and a lie detector test, that found no abuse. He writes in considerable detail how Mia turned from him after they conceived their child, Satchel. She kept Satchel from him with her” unnaturally obsessed behavior” including prolonged periods in her bedroom “forever alone” with the child. As for another of Mia’s adopted children, Soon-Yi, who would become Allen’s wife, Allen sets the record straight. She was never underage, as Mia claimed, but 22. His famed quote “the heart wants what it wants” was him echoing Saul Bellow echoing Emily Dickinson. Allen remains impervious to criticism, whether of his films or him personally. He hones to his own critical and moral compass. He knows he did nothing wrong. “I never abused anyone in my life.” Meanwhile, throughout this otherwise joyfully rambling memoir there are fascinating glimpses of show business personalities and delightful gossip, including being intimidated by actress Judy Davis and his dislike for Vivian Vance and Peter Sellers. His biggest regret? That “I’ve been given millions to make movies, total artistic control and I never made a great film.”