What we think about when we think about Woody Allen: the Woody of the 1970s, parodic nebbish-genius turned self-satiric nebbish-romantic, whose films bore rich, thick meat and yet could produce belly laughs in the educated middle-aged. The Woody of the next decade, workaholic shotgun-spray auteur, who made some kind of progression toward maturity and inventiveness every other film. And the Woody of late, recycling menopauser and master of mannerism, his scenarios tame remakes, his characters instantly recognizable as meta-Woodys aping the man's trademarked delivery. Given the career entropy, his survival has been remarkable, as is the forgiving shower of accolades... More >>>