Review: "Apropos of Nothing" by Woody Allen

When I heard earlier this year that Woody Allen was publishing a memoir, believe it or not, even though I'm a major fan, I didn't feel inclined to read it. First, at the time, the world and my family were being enveloped by the COVID-19 nightmare, and reading a book like this seemed totally irrelevant. Second, I've read a lot about Woody Allen's career and somehow felt this book wouldn't tell me anything new. Third, I personally dislike the entire genre of autobiography, even by people I admire -- autobiographies are inherently one-sided and sanitized -- and I find them mostly creepy or boring. So I figured that, if I ever did read it, it would be years from now, after the man was deceased.

Then Hurricane Farrow happened.

It turned out that Woody Allen and his estranged son (?) Ronan Farrow had the same publisher -- so Ronan threatened to dump them. Then Ronan's family relaunched their smear campaign against Woody. Then a bunch of employees at the publisher staged a "walk out" in protest of this book and got the publisher to cancel it. Oh yes, this was 21st century "woke" social media censorship at its finest -- and it failed. Another publisher picked up the book and published it. And, as a Woody fan, but also as someone who detests censorship in all its forms, I bought the book -- and read it.

Indeed. I read it -- the book Ronan Farrow doesn't want you to read! The book that set the publishing world ablaze!

So ... what about the book itself?

Eh, it reminds me of why I'm not a huge fan of autobiographies. Parts of the book are very funny but most of it is boring. Woody spends a longgggg time writing about his childhood. He seems to alternatively venerate and loathe his parents. He tells lots of stories about his upbringing that, while mildly amusing, aren't particularly interesting. Nostalgia is either fascinating or dulls, and most of Woody's falls into the latter category. It's amazing, however, to reflect that someone who came from such a humble, poor background, whose parents sound rather hopeless and less than nurturing, rose to such great heights as he did. It wasn't fate or genius -- it was just hard work and a cultivated talent for joke telling.

What's rather strange is that Woody writes about his momentous life and career (from TV writer, to standup comedian, to movie actor, then director and cinematic legend, in addition to his relationships and marriages) in a strangely casual way. It's as though his life was just a bunch of things that happened to him, and who really cares? He seems genuinely unimpressed by himself and his achievements. You get the sense from reading all this that Woody would probably be no more or less happy, no more or less impressed with his life, just be exactly the same kind of person he is if he had turned out to be the druggist his mother wanted him to become -- instead of the cultural icon he turned into.

There's also a lot of diversions in this book -- he'll be writing about something that happened fifty years ago, then quickly move on to something that happened much more recently, then go back to his original memory. It gets rather annoying after a while -- as do many of his not terribly amusing ripostes.

My biggest disappointment with the book is that he spends very little time actually writing about his movies. It's basically, "I made this movie, then this one, then this other one," like he was an assembly-line worker and not a cinematic visionary. Granted, he's made so many movies that a comprehensive account of each one would take up multiple volumes; but there's a lazy quality to how he writes about them -- just a few sentences, maybe a few paragraphs, and that's it. And what he writes about them isn't particularly revealing. Bakers are more excited about their cakes.

And, yes, Woody goes deeply into "la scandale" that has, sadly, often overshadowed his work. I won't recount it here except to say that the amount of evidence and logic he presents to support his innocence is overwhelming. You can't argue with it. You can't deny it. You can't undermine it in anyway. What's bizarre, both to Woody and most of us who believe in, you know, reality, is how many people are willing to believe lies because they make them feel good -- and how willing other people are to become part of another person's sick agenda. Then again, look at the state of our country and you begin understand how logic and reality or so often ... trumped ... by emotion and magical thinking.

My final verdict on this book: read it if you're a major Woody fan but don't if you're not. It confirms what I don't really like about autobiographies but there's some stuff worth reading about -- just not as much as I'd hoped. 

P.S. Ronan is a real asshole -- and, worse, a hypocrite. He abuses his power and clout to exact revenge upon people he hates -- in this case, his estranged, maybe dad. Also, Ronan made his name not only by investigating other people's sex lives but also their abuses of power -- and then he turns around and abuses his own! Right now Ronan is the Golden Boy of the media, and criticisms of him don't stick. But I don't think anyone will look back on his efforts to censor this book as anything less than disgraceful. As Ronan himself has proven, golden halos don't last forever.