Jesus H. Minnelli, I miss NYC. I lived there only a year but I’ve always felt, I’m talking early childhood on, that I was a New Yorker. It’s just in me. Maybe that’s why I left after only a year? I knew if I didn’t get out then, I would stay there forever. New York feels natural to me. Especially Manhattan, which is an entity unto her own. A self analyzing beast that is equally floated by it’s over-educated self-righteousness and grounded by it’s bitter observationalists that self mold it to be the specific city it is. That sentence proves my belonging, I guess. And so does that one. I mean, if New York City was a person- I’d wanna be just like her. She’s self sustainable, cultured, influential and continually evolving while, at the same time, an open book. Her flaws are known as infamously as her coos. Yes, she’s simultaneously the central birthing place for new culture and a living model of American History. But, she’s also dirty, loud, excessive, materialistic and self centered. She doesn’t really give a shit what any other community is doing. She does New York City because it’s all she knows how to do in flaw and fab. New York City owes that to be the sum of her parts- the people.
Everyone of us carries an image of The New Yorker. Whether you think of the loud mouth construction worker cat calling passing women, or the passing women- who might be some of New York’s wealthiest socialites on their way to a gallery opening or fashion show, you can personify New York City. Well, so can I. Woody Allen. Obviously, I’m not in the minority. I’m no dolt. Many many many of us see Woody Allen as an iconic New Yorker. But why? Yeah, he’s from Brooklyn and a huge portion of his film catalogue uses the city as a backdrop, but it goes beyond that. What it really boils down to, my friends. If you dig beneath the East Coast accent and the George Costanza neurosis, you will find that Woody Allen doesn’t really give a fuck about what you think. Surely, you remember To Rome With Love. I’m sorry? You’d like to know “What the hell that was?” Oh, I’ll tell you what it was. It was Woody Allen giving zero fucks about what you think. He wanted a paid vacation in Italy! Yeah, we know it was NO Bananas, Annie Hall, Manhattan, Match Point (just kidding), Hannah And Her Sisters, Zelig, Vicky Christina Barcelona (kinda just kidding) or Midnight in Paris. So what?
Just stop, sit down, and prepare to clutch your pearls. Here is some real news. Despite the over 60 films Woody has made, he is lowly ranked at #84 on Box Office Mojo’s top 100 Grossing Directors Of All Time list and he doesn’t even make the list for IMDB’s Directors With the Most Films in the IMDB’s Top 250. Yet, Woody Allen remains the only living movie maker to write and produce a film a year AND has been doing this since his first film Whats New Pussycat in 1965. Holy shit. Holy SHIT! If you’re a sad pity of a thing and believe success is measured in awards, then (if you account his films, TV films, plays, and stand up records) Woody Allen has a success rate of 44%. Less than half of his content goes un-accoladed. But it doesn’t matter because even if you gave Mr. Allen himself that stat with all the math to back it, he’d shrug his shoulders, finish his beer, watch the rest of the Knicks game and head over to The Carlyle to play in is Jazz band. It don’t, I say it DON’T get more BAMF-y than that. Closing note: Raise your hand if you wanna win a BAMFY someday.
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