Suffering from writer's block and eagerly awaiting his writing award, Harry Block remembers events from his past and scenes from his best-selling books as characters, real and fictional, come back to haunt him.
Alvy Singer, a forty year old twice divorced, neurotic, intellectual Jewish New York stand-up comic, reflects on the demise of his latest relationship, to Annie Hall, an insecure, flighty, Midwestern WASP aspiring nightclub singer. Unlike his previous relationships, Alvy believed he may have worked out all the issues in his life through fifteen years of therapy to make this relationship with Annie last, among those issues being not wanting to date any woman that would want to date him, and thus subconsciously pushing those women away. Alvy not only reviews the many ups and many downs of their relationship, but also reviews the many facets of his makeup that led to him starting to date Annie. Those facets include growing up next to Coney Island in Brooklyn, being attracted to the opposite sex for as long as he can remember, and enduring years of Jewish guilt with his constantly arguing parents. Written by
When Annie Hall sings "It Seems Like Old Times," she sings "walk" twice. It should have been:
Seems like old times
Having you to walk with
Seems like old times
Having you to talk with.... See more »
[addressing the camera]
There's an old joke - um... two elderly women are at a Catskill mountain resort, and one of 'em says, "Boy, the food at this place is really terrible." The other one says, "Yeah, I know; and such small portions." Well, that's essentially how I feel about life - full of loneliness, and misery, and suffering, and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly. The... the other important joke, for me, is one that's usually attributed to Groucho Marx; but, I ...
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Christopher Walken's name is misspelled in the credits as "Christopher Wlaken". See more »
What a disaster of a film this is. Ironic in that it's everything it touts it hates. It appeals to a certain kind of culture especially at the time of its creation that functions only a thin layer beneath superficiality. As though just because of its constant and worthless, meaningless postmodern cynicism it actually means something real. But it's pure emptiness - there is no feeling or human soul or spirit in any of the film, and the center of it all is Annie and Alvy, with not an ounce of love between them. Plus the latter is excruciating, nauseatingly painful to watch for two minutes let alone ninety.
It appeals to the mind, not to the heart. It is exactly the kind of intellectualism it claims to hate.
The movie staggers constantly, flickering between occasional bouts of experimental wonder (I loved the animated scene) and rabid pseudo-intellectualist circlejerking. There's some knowledge behind it, but it's only mere name-drops. And again, for a movie about love it certainly is totally devoid of it. There's no real communication between the two main characters, it's all fluff, all gimmick. No genuine emotion exists in Annie Hall the movie.
I almost take it as a personal offense that the slopped-up holier- than-thou script is regarded as one of cinema's greatest. If this is our best, I fear we're doomed.
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