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I heard good things about this Woody Allen autobiography, and the Portsmouth Public Library had the large-print edition. (For some reason, they didn't splurge on the normal-print edition.) I was kind of an Allen fanboy back in my (and his) early days. But I was unimpressed with Manhattan and Stardust Memories and my consumption of Woody movies became more sporadic.
I read this shortly after I read Betty Smith's A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Decades separate those stories, one is fictionalized, but it's pretty interesting to note the similarities between the Brooklyn strivers in the books.
Near the end, Allen has a good summary:
In my lifetime I had written gags for nightclub comics, written for radio, written a nightclub act for myself and done it, written for television, played clubs and concerts and TV, wrote and directed movies, wrote and directed in the theater, starred on Broadway, , directed an opera. I've done it all from boxing a kangaroo on TV to staging Puccini. It's enabled me to dine at the White House, to play ball with major leaguers at Dodger Stadium, to play jazz in parades and at Preservation Hall in New Orleans, to travel all over America and Europe, to meet heads of state and meet all kinds of gifted men and women, witty guys, enchanting actresses. I've had my books published. If I died right now I couldn't complain—and neither would a lot of other people.
Allen's prose is like that: straightforward, with just a dash of wit. No hilarity, just many mini-zingers as above. There are literally hundreds of names dropped, a goodly fraction of them famous. And mostly complimentary too, especially to those actors and crew that worked on his movies. When he doles out criticism, he's hardest on himself. Very self-deprecating.
Of course, the One Big Elephant in the room is the allegations of sexual abuse, which Allen strongly denies, and the one person to which he's not complimentary at all is Mia Farrow, who (he charges) is behind the attempted assassination of his character, as revenge for taking up a romantic/sexual relationship with Soon-Yi Previn, Mia's adopted daughter. I think he makes a pretty good self-defense. But I haven't heard much from his accusers.
Pro tip: don't leave naked pictures of your much younger girlfriend on the mantel of your swanky Manhattan penthouse.
The book has no chapters, it's pretty much just one page after another. At some points, for no apparent reason, there will be some extra whitespace between paragraphs, with the first few words after the whitespace being in a slightly larger font size. Go figure. I also noticed a few apparent typos, and since I am not a particularly diligent reader, I assume there are more.