The purpose of this book is two-fold:

First, as it references a large number of contemporary reviews — most of them online — it gives a snapshot of Woody criticism as it exists now, instead of merely relying on perspectives from thirty or forty years ago, often part of ‘schools’ and ‘cliques’ that are no longer relevant. Quite often, great art needs some distance and some time before it can be properly evaluated by the masses, which invariably includes critics, as well, since they’ve been elected to speak for the very same people negatively impacted by such closeness in the first place. This is one of the values of online publishing, as it can be ahead of the curve in some regards.

Second, it is clear that so many of Woody’s films have not even been properly seen, much less talked about. This needs to change. I’d spent a long time with films such as Interiors, Stardust Memories, Another Woman, and many others long before I’d read any reviews, or had been biased against these films, pro or con. It is shocking, then, to finally read what has been written, from the utter meagerness of the discussions, themselves, to the way critics seem to steal from one another — down to the very exact phrasing, often originating in one or two reviews that spiral out of control, reproducing, like memes, into what gets termed ‘the critical discourse’. After a while, however, this has less to do with the films in question than in the way ideas travel, affect, and afflict, thus ensnaring otherwise smart people who can’t see just how they’re being compromised.

Naturally, one should not engage with art while wearing these sort of blinders. Not being a ‘professional’ critic, a member of some status quo, or emotionally invested in this or that opinion or film, but a regular guy who goes to work, comes home, and writes, I won’t regale you with film-speak or other ills, but talk to you as one informed human being to another about what’s truly relevant to the art-form. I will assume you know what you know, and that you are, for lack of a better word, open. Most importantly, I will obviate the ‘I’ of this foreword, and let the films speak for themselves as best as they can, until they are their own best evidence. This is why I’ll often track the ‘big’ films scene by scene, letting them play out via print before they are subjected to my analysis, so that readers can see just why, exactly, I make the claims that I do. Too often, a critic would write something, and I’d wonder whether or not they’d even watched the scene in question. At other times, I’d marvel how a critic’s purported evidence would undercut the very claim being made. These are major flaws, no doubt, but they can also be avoided if a work of art is merely allowed to be itself, first, before the deductions start rolling in.

Lots of people talk of what they ‘like’ and ‘dislike’. In between these two words, however, there’s the far more fruitful territory of what ‘is’. Not everyone will have the same background, politics, personal aesthetic, or philosophical bent, so to force a work of art into one’s preferences is meaningless and self-absorbed. But if we watch a film, we all see the same characters, visuals, and ideas which, while certainly multilayered, are not infinite in possible interpretations, bounded, as they are, by the parameters of the film. We therefore have the choice to take them on their own terms, as part of their own internal universe — our egos be damned! This is really what I mean by the word ‘open’, and I hope that it still applies.

This book has well over two hundred references, alluding, as it does, to a lot of writing on the subject of Woody Allen. As is natural, not everything is good, with some writers being guilty of the very things I’ve described. Yet they’ve been chosen for a reason, as they are representative of ‘Woody’ thinking ca. 2014, for good or ill, and probably will be for a while longer. The book, therefore, corrals these references into chapters, and uses them to help shape a narrative of my own crafting. I often agree with what the writers say. But, just as often, I don’t. This, again, is only natural, for a critic’s job is to teach, and confidently, at that. Now, it is good to be right. Let’s not kid ourselves here. But it’s even better to have a cogent and unique argument that will take the reader to fresh insights about things that really matter. And, of course, the better the argument, the closer it will approximate the truth.

Woody Allen: Reel to Real is broken up into seven chapters. The first five deal with Woody Allen’s films chronologically, including one chapter reserved for Allen’s actor-only appearances in films like Casino Royale and Antz. The sixth deals with Woody Allen’s major critics, focusing on where, exactly, they have been right, and where — perhaps even more importantly — they’ve erred. The final chapter comments on Allen’s influences, as well as the man’s own viewpoints on art, life, and film.

Too often, a piece of writing about an artist will begin with what, ironically, is considered most essential: the background noise. Yet I don’t begin talking of Woody’s life, influences, or opinions until the very end, wherein I finally take the man to task. That’s because the most important thing, by far, is what’s ultimately on the screen, and not where it is derived from — especially since, in most cases, Woody betters his derivations in ways that older filmmakers simply had no opportunity to do. The bottom line, then, is the films, for a well-wrought work of art communicates its meaning without too much trouble. Sure, it’s always good to be a seasoned movie-goer if one decides to tackle a complex film. But if someone tells you — no, downright insists — that you ‘need’ to watch Federico Fellini or Ingmar Bergman to really ‘get’ Woody Allen? Run. They really don’t have your best interests at heart.

For everything I tackle, however, it seems that this book asks only one central question: Just where — and what — is the real Woody Allen? Certainly, he is not merely where the critics say he is. Nor does he sit where the viewers do, given how his most popular films have only come about in the last few years, and have, in some ways, been his most consistently lackluster. But, worst of all, Woody Allen is not where he thinks he is, either, as his self-effacing comments will go on to show. Yet, for all that, I don’t always believe it. I think his words are a put-on, as Manhattan’s illusionary ‘loveliness’ was; as Stardust Memories is the sum of others’ self-deceit. He dismisses himself, and yet, he “keeps his nose to the grindstone”, as he’s often said, for there must be something, however slipshod, vague, that lets Allen know he’s done much good, and thus keeps the man going. Reality, after all, does not care for your approval. It only tolerates it, even as you ask — as Allen must — ‘So what?’

“…a seminal book in film criticism that eschews the Lowest Common Denominator Thumbs Up/Thumbs Down approach to film criticism…in favor of an in depth and objective look at the films, themselves, as works of art. This is a welcome, and hopefully, revolutionary tool that will inspire a younger generation of art critics, in all forms and genre, to transcend their own limits, just as every cineaste and art aesthete hopes to do for themselves.” — Dan Schneider, poet, critic, novelist, and founder of Cosmoetica

“…a massive undertaking, and one of the most significant pieces of film archaeology you could come across.” — Dan Slevin, editor (FishHead Magazine) and broadcaster (Rancho Notorious Podcast)

“…damn good writing…It’s not only a great book on Woody Allen, but on art and the art of criticism, which will serve as a great resource for those interested in the ways film operates.” — Andrew J. Geary (AndrewGearyWrites)

“…erudite, intelligent…the most far-reaching analysis of Woody Allen’s career so far.” — John Greco (Twenty Four Frames)