RADIO DAYS (1987) *** Woody Allen's reconstruction of the inherent chaos of memory. He always shows so much that he's hard to read. This may be the first fruits of a newfound confidence, that we all will admit how clever it is. Premature senility is always possible. Maybe it's his variation on the sentimentality for anything else that anyone with a brain was subjected to during the Reagan years. Perhaps it's a sideswipe at ambition, look on my efforts you lemmings and despair. It's not a carnival of overconfidence, it's good. It says something, it doesn't try to say much. 1930s through ‘50s American culture hasn't been treated kindly by the years. We appreciate them knocking off the Nazis and Japanese, but no one revisits the popular songs or fashions. Woody's not on a soapbox, if he were to bother making a statement it would slide comfortably between the poles of existentialism and subjectivity. Of course anything would, and that's fine. That's special, some of it's special, everything that's mine, everything I can give to you, anything we've shared together, some of the things we can share with someone else, everything that eludes. Maybe that's it. Realizing...not that there's nothing special about that which eludes us, but ignoring it and clinging to some worthy elements of a subjectivity that is real by objective standards. Woody can't say things like that without being amusing, don't go to get popcorn when the rabbi shows.
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