2/2/23
Newsletter #238
The Crack of Dawn
When I was in 5th grade I got the littlest reel-to-reel tape recorder I had ever seen, and it was the size of a brick. The first thing I did was to put the microphone up to the TV and record the sound of the movie Casablanca. Then, being a clever juvenile delinquent, I brought the tape recorder to school with me. Placing the recorder in the desk, I ran the earphone wire up my sleeve, put the earphone in my ear, then rested my head against my hand, covering my ear. My clever plan worked for perhaps two minutes before I was caught and sent to the principal.
Four years later in 1972, Woody Allen made the film, Play it Again, Sam. The film begins with the actual end of Casablanca. I was befuddled, as I was supposed to be – was this Woody Allen’s new movie or had I gone into the wrong theater? – but I immediately got caught up in Casablanca’s fabulous finale. I knew ever line by heart. I mouthed along as Bogart said, “I’m no good at being noble, but it doesn’t take much to see that the problems of three little people don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world . . .”
Then it cut to a shot of Woody Allen in a movie theater watching the film doing exactly the same thing that I was doing, mouthing the words along with Bogey. It was both supernatural and insanely funny to me. I was pulled into the movie in a way that has never happened since. Woody Allen was speaking directly to me.
Woody Allen became one of my mentors. Woody and I were both young, Jewish movie writer-directors, and old movie buffs; we were kindred spirits. He is 18 years older than me. And following the path of cheap independent movies — Take the Money and Run (1969), Bananas (1971) — he had made it to making real Hollywood movies. That’s what I intended to do.
I became his biggest fan, and took great joy in watching him develop as an artist. I learned from Woody, and as he learned more, he imparted it to me. But right from the beginning he taught me a huge lesson in writing. His screenplay for Play it Again, Sam is a brilliantly conceived and constructed story. Having his story about him, Diane Keaton, Tony Roberts and Humphrey Bogart culminate exactly like that of Bogart, Bergman, Paul Henried and Claude Rains — which he showed us at the beginning of the movie — took my breath away.
My first real movie – meaning with sound, a script, lighting and costumes – was The Final Round (1977). It’s a hybrid of the two previous Best Pictures: Rocky (1976) and Annie Hall (1977). This is the one and only film in which I star, and I am so blatantly channeling Woody Allen in my performance that I still find it embarrassing.
Woody’s films up to Annie Hall are considered his “early, funny” period. The culmination of his early, funny movies is Love & Death (1976), which is both mine and Woody’s favorite of his films. It’s a parody of Russian novels and Ingmar Bergman movies, and the two fit together perfectly. One of the many great scenes is Diane Keaton as Sonya going to the white-bearded Russian Orthodox priest, played by an old Eastern European Jewish actor from New York [whom I just saw in The Chosen (1981)]. Sonya says, “Bless me father for I have sinned.” It cuts to a high angle and we see that the priest’s beard is so long it goes across the table, down to the floor and Sonya is standing on it. The priest says, “Get off my beard, you little jerk.” Sonya asks, “Father, what is the meaning of life?” The old priest says, “Twelve-year-old girls. Preferably two.” Sonya says, “Thank you, your grubbiness.”
Uh-oh, documented proof of Woody Allen’s perversion for young girls.
I believe that Woody Allen is innocent of this ridiculous groping-a-seven-year-old charge. I have a right to believe he’s innocent. All of the courts in the land have acquitted and exonerated him, as have all the psychologists, therapists, child case workers, etc. Woody and Soon-Yee adopted two daughters during the course of all this mishegoss, and got through that scrutiny, too. The facts prove Woody’s innocence.
But in the court of public opinion he’s guilty. Thus, in direct defiance of the facts, Woody Allen, one of my heroes, is now not only completely discounted as a filmmaker, he’s synonymous with child molestation, and is therefore toxic.
To me, this makes exactly as much sense as saying that Joe Biden is not president. Really? All the facts say he is, so perhaps you have arrived at the wrong conclusion. You can say whatever you want, it’s a free country, but the facts prove you a fool. Your opinion does not override the facts. If you think it does, you’re wrong. You can say the moon is made of green cheese if you’d like, but we happen to factually know otherwise. The moon is made of Swiss cheese.
So, I was in this cool, hidden, underground bar in Fairfax, CA, a few weeks ago and my good buddy introduced me to the bartender/owner/manager named Spencer. To say this “properly” right now – meaning, English be damned – they is a big person. [Even the grammar program in this computer is unhappy with that description].
Spencer is a male in the midst of becoming a female. They, being Spencer, is about six-three, was just beginning to grow breasts on they’s brawny chest, and on half his head he has shoulder-length blonde hair, and the other half is shaved. They’s got a look, that’s for sure. They quickly proved themself to be a funny, bright person, and me and my buddy and another guy at the bar all began laughing and joking right away. I thought, “I love this bar.” Any bar where I can instantly begin laughing and joking is my kind of place.
When the guy seated at the bar heard that I had worked in the movie business, he uttered the oft-repeated phrase, “Hollywood must be dog eat dog,” I said, “It’s worse than that. As Woody Allen said, ‘It’s dog doesn’t call dog back.’” Everybody laughed, including Spencer. It’s a good line.
Then there was an odd, unnatural pause. I now see that this was the moment that the court of public opinion, or at least Spencer’s Court, decided the current parameters of public taste . . . in Marin County, CA, that is, possibly the most liberal spot in the whole country. Leaning leisurely on the back shelf, wiping a glass, Spencer stated, “We don’t quote Woody Allen in this bar.”
I was momentarily confused and asked, “Really? Why?”
“He’s a child molester,” Spencer stated unequivocally.
I said, “He was acquitted by every court in the land.”
Spencer said, “But I say he’s not quoted in this bar.”
I smiled and said, “Oh, I see, this is like woke, PC bullshit, right?”
Spencer rose to they’s full height – he’s the size of a transgender John Wayne, with Blondie on one side and Jada Pinkett-Smith on the other – and said, “I’ll throw you out of this bar.”
Smiling even wider, and straightening up to my full, impressive, five-foot-nine inches, I said, “Now that I’d like to see.”
Spencer and I eyed each other for a long moment. Toxic masculinity vs. a perfect amalgamation of contemporary society. Yes, I may represent “toxic masculinity,” which is presently considered uncool, but I know who I am, and nobody badmouths my sensi, my dojo or my temple. Within my 64-year-old Jewish brain I had become Bruce Lee. I was honestly grinning ridiculously, like a geeked-up Cheshire Cat. What can I say? I like confrontations, particularly when I think I’m right, and in this case I was better than right, I was defending the good name of my sensi and the reputation of our dojo. Even if I lost, honor would be satisfied. Besides, I fight dirty and I would have killed this stupid, ridiculous-looking motherfucker, as nice and bright as he may have been. They, being Spencer, clearly sensed my crazy, unhinged vibe and quickly backed off. So I happily backed off, too, tripping on adrenaline.
At the end of the night we bumped fists. I will definitely go back to that bar, and I bet Spencer and I will become buds to some level. I completely respect Spencer’s right to do anything they want to do to theyself, and be whoever they want to be. They just has to learn that I have that right too, and in my world facts override opinions. Call me a stick-in-the-mud, but Joe Biden is the president, and that’s not my opinion.
It’s 17 degrees here in Detroit. I am flying to L.A. today, and I intend to be swimming in an outdoor pool by this evening. Have a glorious day.