Hollywoody Beginnings
My Life With Woody Allen

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By Mike Durrett, About Guide to Humor


When I was a bumbling 17, I drove myself to see "Take the Money and Run," the freshly-released debut movie written and directed by, and starring a young, cutting edge comic named Woody Allen.

The auditorium reverberated with laughter. I was the only one in attendance, but my enthusiasm and delight were enough to cover for those poor saps who chose to be elsewhere.

This 1969 tale of a schnook crook damned in crime and amour struck me as anarchic with an uninhibited appetite for sublime silliness and the anything goes appeal of the Marx Bros., Jerry Lewis, Bob Hope, and W.C. Fields -- "Duck Soup" (1933), "The Ladies' Man" (1961), "Son of Paleface" (1952), and "Never Give a Sucker an Even Break" (1941) come to mind.

By the second reel, I began to recognize "Take the Money and Run" to be an invaluable resource for me, a budding goofball. It is a primer, revealing the heart and guts of comedy construction and attitudinal necessity. As I saw in this film and have observed elsewhere throughout life, the biggest howls come from wit breaking the rules. Woody's yarn is unflinchingly ludicrous, deep doo-doo dangerous, and way over the top, yet always dead center on target with its laugh-seeking missiles.

Throughout the '70s, while my contemporaries were into drugs and free sex, I was doing Woody Allen. I cannot begin to exaggerate the importance of his next film to my life. "Bananas" (1971) was the Holy Grail of Comedy, much akin to "Take the Money and Run" in execution and style, but somehow loonier and more cocksure. I devoured it on opening night and eagerly revisited many times in the weeks and years to follow.

As a freelance projectionist, I was so consumed with "Bananas" during its theatrical run, I passed on more lucrative job opportunities in order to go work at a dive showing this treasure, viewing it five times per day, feeling it in my fingers.

"Play It Again, Sam" (1972), "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex (But Were Afraid to Ask)" (1972), "Sleeper" (1973),  and "Love and Death" (1975) kept the big -- I'm talking huge! -- laughs rolling in.

Then came the turning points, "Annie Hall" (1977) and "Manhattan" (1979). While I recognize them to be Allen's best films in a craftsmanship appraisal, they demonstrate an abrupt, gear-stripping shift from the lunatic delicacies which preceded. Considering these fine romances sandwiched his dark, all-dramatic diversion, "Interiors" (1978) -- well, the handwriting was on the wall. Woody Allen's hellzapoppin' era was over; the flat-out funny features were of the past. His redirection soon became a topic of acknowledgement in "Stardust Memories" (1980) and, for me, and I suspect for millions of others, a comedy lover's wound which has never quite healed.

That's not to say there haven't been memorable moments and good, giggly pictures during the recent decades, such as "Broadway Danny Rose" (1984), Hannah and Her Sisters" (1986), "Radio Days" (1987), "Mighty Aphrodite" (1995), "Small Time Crooks" (2000), and "The Curse of the Jade Scorpion" (2001). These deliver ample whimsy, but Woody's interests changed into a more linear, traditional, and less frenetic style of storytelling.

Regardless, I've seen them all, looking forward to the next and the next. I intend to go the distance with Mr. Allen. His crumbs are yummier than most comedians' feasts.

Hollywood Ending

One day, out of nowhere, I received an email from a friend. He had a pair of tickets to a pre-release screening of "Hollywood Ending" (2002), the new Woody I'd been eager to see. Would I like to use them?

"I'm there," I thought.

I read on. "Immediately followed by a special Q & A with Woody Allen."

My bodily functions hiccuped. There must be an error. This is a man who could teach Osama bin Laden about reclusion.

I reread the message and, sure enough, film lore's Virgil Starkwell/Fielding Mellish/Alvy Singer et al. was scheduled to appear in person.

Departing hours early on the afternoon of the event, I drove straight to the fourth row of the Phipps Plaza Theatre in Atlanta. I watched "Hollywood Ending" with a capacity throng of appreciative fans. The auditorium reverberated with laughter.

Afterwards, when the music swelled and the lights beamed up, I heard applause in the rear of the room, rolling down the aisles. Turning my head to the right, I saw a spry little man I'd never met, yet one I knew better than my father. He strolled to a director's chair under the motion picture screen. At 66, Woody Allen was surprisingly energetic, endearing, and even debonair as he answered questions in what I long ago observed to be his trademark street outfit, a light blue shirt and khakis. This night, he was topped off with a vivid red V-neck sweater.

Thirty minutes whizzed by and he was gone, through the sea of a standing ovation. I didn't speak to him. I couldn't, afraid I would embarrass us both. It was an emotional occasion. I didn't sprinkle tears, but I was joyously overwhelmed from sharing three-dimensions with a personal hero. In some weird way, these few moments were a connection, a thank-you, and, as always, my pleasure.

On the long drive home, about 20 miles up the highway, my wife blurted out of her silence, "I'm going to buy you a red sweater."

I chuckled. That amused me, as I'm sure it did the blue shirt and khakis I wore in the darkness.

©2002 by Mike Durrett. All rights reserved.

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