Who says time travel isn’t possible?
I spent 92 long minutes in Woody Allen’s cinematic wayback machine yesterday, reliving almost all the 60’s pseudo-psychoanalytic cultural neuroses, nihilism and negative leftist judgmental-stereotypes he popularized then that still have us on the couch and at each other’s throats.
Allen wrote the script more than 30 years ago with Zero Mostel in mind as the obvious, self-involved, Allen alter-ego lead character living in a psychobabble New York City hell of his own creation. But a not so funny thing happened on Zero’s way to the Forum years ago, leaving Allen to look for an actor who could convincingly play the part of a brilliant Jewish string theory former professor in his sixties who manages to schtup and then marry a vulnerable, naive teenager. The familiar ring of that scenario is integral to the theme of “Whatever,” which is that there is no God, everything that happens is just random cosmic kaka, and so we should all do whatever gets us our jollies.
Yahweh may not agree, but He did create a person unbalanced enough — at least from what I read — to play the lead: Larry David of Seinfeld and Curb Your Enthusiasm (mine was curbed shortly after the fade from black).
In scenes that must have been twenty or more pages long, David’s Boris Yellnikoff –emphasis on “yell” — alternately kvetched and sneered in gawd awful-long soliloquy to the fourth wall about sophomoric penis envy, vaginal snapper fear, Oedipal lust, suppressed homosexuality, atheism, NRA hating, fly-over land cretin bashing, inner-selves yearning to be free and other urban elitist Nietzsche-Kant-Sartre politically liberal arrogance that used to be such great co-ed thigh openers at frat house mixers or the White Horse Tavern while channeling and analyzing Dylan Thomas’ inner Freudianism Jungism.
Do not go gentle into that good theater darkness for this one, my friend, unless you can stand the past life regression to “Oooh, so what were Freud and Jung really saying?” by the keg.
Well, Freud said sometimes a cigar is just a cigar while Jung thought that a woman was a woman but a cigar was a smoke. But lemme play it out for ya …
My name is Sigund Freud outa Vienna, and I bring youuuu … a VIRUS for the Jung !!!
You make me feel so Jung
You make me feel my head has sprung
And every time I look at you
I feel so very, psychological.
The Moment that you speak
I wanna hold my head and freak …
“That’s sooo clever and deep. And just where is your room in this great big house?”
Heh, heh…
Wouldn’t every aging man like to live the Lolita fantasy of a nubile bed-mate who swallows every cockeyed pessimistic rant about life and love and God without challenge while offering a Viagra? Sure you would. And I’ll bet Woody likes it too, which is why his Yellnikoff seems an awful lot like the Max Von Sydow misanthrope of “Hannah and Her Sisters.” It’s on his mind. It’s in his life. Woody may look mellow, but there’s a raging river of recurring themes that cannot find resolution behind those horn rims — emphasis on horn. Maybe that’s why he’s gone to a shrink every day for the past 50 years.
How Allen managed to inject his own psycho-neuroses, political and social views on the American culture, I don’t know. Was his wimpy, over-therapied, pseudo-intellectual image something America wanted to imitate? Or were those who most identified with Allen already that way? Whatever, the unvarnished anger and snobbery of the urban chattering class toward those who lead traditional lives (married, kids, religious, employed at non artsy jobs — particularly those who lead those traditional lives in “flyover land”) is on display in this film for all us artistic elites to wallow in.
Guys who like football are hiding their lust for guys by watching guys in tight pants. Guys who own a gun are compensating for the inadequate size of their penis. Belief in God is a form of arrested mental development. All of which reduces to Allen tellin’ those schmucks who think they’re happy with their routine lives that they aren’t.
Some of Allen’s solutions?
Admit you’re really gay and live the lifestyle. Throw away that Bible that’s causing sexual repression and discover the new Jesus of a bisexual menage a trois. Take advantage of teenage girls. Try and commit suicide — twice — as Yellnikoff does.
Try? I’d have been willing to kill that sob for sure, especially after finding a $55 parking ticket on my car after the movie.
Whatever.