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.”