By Mariah Gower
So there I was: fifteen-years-old, awkward and uncertain, daughter of two painfully stereotypical New Yorker-type, baby boomer college professors. A young girl less self-aware than a lab rat in a biotech company lab (don’t you know you’re running in circles, buddy?) I was certainly in need of some life perspective, and so that fateful night when I stumbled upon Woody Allen’s Annie Hall in my local library’s two-shelf “movie section,” I realized a life path discovered by millions of my fellow, young and impressionable and awkward youths. From 1977 to 2007 and beyond, the language of pun-riddled neurosis is, at its core, universal.
Scintillating Pseudo-psychology, a ton of great sex, and lots of time to go to the movies (not to mention the incalculable amount of wild 70s cocktail parties and weekend trips to the Hamptons)—such are the pastimes of our beloved Alvy Singer, Paul Simon (whatever his name is), and of course, Annie Hall. As a kid brought up on the virtues of Liberal Arts and “exploring” all options, such a life seems like the only conducive atmosphere for myself and the like-minded around me—honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever 100% committed to any one life path or career goal. I’m a meanderer, to say the least. The only constant in my life has been seeking out great conversation with fascinating people—and hopefully blowing off all the other pretentious assholes that inevitably come with that soiree scene. We’ve all been in a movie line, wanting to strangle the guy behind us as he waxes poetic on the sociocultural implication of Transformers.
A defining element of Annie Hall is the actual illustration of the interplay between Men and Women—as revealed through the saga of Alvy and Annie—that is so perfectly replicated in the chronicling of the Woody Allen and Diane Keaton characters’ relationship. One of the quintessential scenes of the film is right in the beginning of the affair, on the balcony in Annie’s apartment, as both characters struggle with that clumsy, getting-to-know-you-and-I’m-also-insanely-attracted-to-you small talk, drink in shaky hand, and mouth trying to find the most impressive words in one’s vocabulary. As the irrelevant conversation unfolds, the screen pans out to subtitles of Alvy and Annie’s inner commentaries, with worried lines like “I dabble? Listen to me what a jerk.” “I wonder what she looks like naked?” “I’m not smart enough for him. Hang in there.” “Christ, I sound like FM radio. Relax.” The interaction rings so true to all important relationships. Everyone knows those anxious and excited feelings, and Allen captures those emotions perfectly.
Even bigger than Alvy and Annie’s actual relationship, there is that idea of the certain person of “Annie Hall” in my mind, as the model for the kind of woman and life I wish for myself as I ascend into adulthood. A glance at a scene in Annie’s apartment—a studio filled to the brim with hundreds of books (the good and the gawdy side by side), killer music, knick-knacks, and self-sustaining indoor plants that abound from every shelf and windowpane, and you see the ideal of the place I’d like to call my own home someday instantly reflected. It’s that kind of clutter that will inevitably be an intrinsic staple in my life.
If anything, Annie Hall presents that philandering lifestyle that has always been my inclination. Woody Allen merely verbalizes that that kind of goal to have for yourself isn’t necessarily unnecessary in the world. You know, being a little too self-aware is just fine and dandy when it doesn’t go hand-in-hand with judgmentalness, snobbery, or close-mindedness. If anything, it makes you your quirky you. So, go ahead—get a B.A. in Medieval Russian literature and then move to New York to sing in a jazz bar, or run away to L.A. for a few months. Take some college classes for fun, have frivolous sex as much as possible, watch movies, read books—no matter the artistic quality. Everything you do just makes you that more magnetic. If anything, you’ll be that person people love talking to at the cocktail party, and isn’t that human connection what anyone really wants? Thanks, Annie Hall, Woody Allen, the screwed up 1970s and lost generation baby-boomers, for crystallizing that transcendental desire we all have—giving the Green Light “OK” for myself, and so many other awkward fifteen-year-olds out there looking for, whatever it is all about.
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