Manhattan: A note, not a review

In a non-ubiquitous farewell to Byron’s apartment, Chris and I joined him for a premiere screening of Woody Allen’s Manhattan.

The film opens with an ode to New York, the film’s silent but omnipresent character, in all its grandeur and a fanfare to suit. It shone like a ruby on a screen of black and white–delicate yet resolute. And then there were four. The mangled couple of couples, full dysfunction in tact.

Between all the characters, in all their idiosyncracies and annoyances, the one shiny ruby for me was Diane Keaton as Mary. Mary blames her career for her romantic shortcomings and for her inability to be in a relationship. The real problem is she’s always falling for the wrong man–in this case a married man and a self-involved, cradle-robbing fault-finder. Though we may shy away from imagining Diane Keaton anywhere near our gals from Sex and the City, she’s clearly the inspiration for Carrie Bradshaw. The kinky hair and subtle sexuality plus she’s cultured, sharp as a tack and a sucker for love. She’s a vagabond of men’s hearts. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know how to voice her true feelings, in fact, no one in this film actually does. Except for the 17-year-old lover of Woody’s character Issac. She knows how to love and when to love. What she may lack in age she makes up for in maturity. She knows when to let go and she knows how to have faith–something she expresses to Issac at the end. “You’ve got to have faith in people.

Keaton aside, best supporting character goes to the ol’ city herself. Hats off to t hem both.



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