07/9/12

My Top 42 Favorite Woody Allen Films

Here’s every Woody Allen feature film (not including some shorts, made for tv stuff, things he wrote but didn’t direct, etc.) ranked in the order I most like them. At some point in a young girl’s life, you simply say to yourself, “God damnit, I’m going to watch every Woody Allen film ever made.” And then you do. Here’s the result of my pointless scholarship.
  1. Husbands and Wives
  2. Crimes and Misdemeanors
  3. Hannah and Her Sisters
  4. Annie Hall
  5. Deconstructing Harry
  6. Everyone Says I Love You
  7. Manhattan
  8. Vicky Cristina Barcelona
  9. Bullets Over Broadway
  10. Midnight in Paris
  11. Anything Else
  12. Match Point
  13. Mighty Aphrodite
  14. Radio Days
  15. Whatever Works
  16. Stardust Memories
  17. The Purple Rose of Cairo
  18. Alice
  19. You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger
  20. Celebrity
  21. Take The Money and Run
  22. Small Time Crooks
  23. Broadway Danny Rose
  24. Sweet and Lowdown
  25. Another Woman
  26. Sleeper
  27. Bananas
  28. Manhattan Murder Mystery
  29. A Midsummer Night’s Sex Comedy
  30. Don’t Drink the Water
  31. Melinda and Melinda
  32. Shadows and Fog
  33. Cassandra’s dream
  34. Curse of the Jade Scorpion
  35. Zelig
  36. Scoop
  37. To Rome with Love
  38. Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex…
  39. Love and Death
  40. Interiors
  41. What’s Up, Tiger Lily?
  42. Hollywood Ending

Why is Husbands and Wives my favorite Woody Allen film? It’s probably not. Crimes and Misdemeanors is the better movie. Watching Martin Landeau go back in time and listen to his Jewish family debate moral relativism at the dinner table = the best shit I’ve ever seen. I just think Husband and Wives deserves to be remembered. It’s smart about men and women to an unsettling degree. My favorite line, regarding Mia Farrow’s character: “She always gets what she wants.” Girrrl. You know you know women like that.

Deconstructing Harry is a hot mess of weirdness. It’s filled with the fuck word. Billy Crystal plays the devil. What I like about it is that Woody Allen’s character plays a writer, and you get to watch his short stories come to life. Robin Williams plays a guy who is “out of focus.” Such heart! Such whimsy!

Everyone Says I Love You is a fucking musical!

Anything Else is weirdly high on my list. I don’t know why.

Hollywood Ending might not actually be literally the worst Woody Allen film, but I sure do fucking hate it! I’m a better actress than Tiffany Theissen, and I have no acting skills.

So there you have it! What do you think.

07/3/12

getting the ball rolling on subtle cult initiation proceedings.

It’s a full moon tonight. My concerns about the moon are pretty real. There’s that thing Gurdjieff said about earth and earthlings being a slave to the moon, and then there’s the fact that every year the moon moves 3 cm away from earth, and without the moon holding our orbit in delicate balance, we’re doomed to spin off madly into space. Which I guess would be fine.

The moon is thirsty for more blood, can’t you feel it? Here’s the call I put out on facebook: I'm organizing a blood drive for tomorrow night's full moon. At midnight, we meet in a field. We put our blood in a bucket and hurl the bucket at the sky.

Feel free to not take any of that seriously. Go ahead and feel free, if it makes you feel better.

Today I went to see a man on the north side about a siberian husky with a wounded leg. To get there you have to ride your bike down a steep concrete slope that takes you through an echoey, underground tunnel. If you’re really lucky, a train will pass overhead. The dog owner and I talked about how busy we both were, which was sort of a joke, at least on my end it feels like a joke. Feeling the need to read and write all the time and actually being busy seem to me to be two different things, but I don’t know; maybe I’m selling myself short. I told him about crows, and he told me a story about his roommate involving crows and an air rifle. I’m saying the world is magic and we’re all connected.

Being too poor for a lot of food and riding my bike all the time is a recipe for a sexy body. Every day that I step on the rusted out, busted up scale at the anarchist collective, I’ve lost another two pounds. If I keep going at that rate, by the end of the summer I will still exist.  You can’t win!

30 years old. Living at an anarchist collective. Alone, alone, alone.

The guy who loaned me his bike at the beginning of the summer is expected to make a full recovery from the broken legs he suffered on the bike he loaned me. Remember in Misery when Paul Sheldon’s legs were just about healed up, until Annie Wilkes performed the ol’ hobbling trick and busted his ankles up anew, thus ensuring that they continued on in their dysfunctional relationship of demented nurse/writer held captive?

Ha ha. Just kidding, dude. I’ll give you your bike back.

In the book, she doesn’t break his ankles with a sledgehammer. She straight up cuts off one of his feet. In the book he has phantom limb pain which I think is a metaphor for missing his freedom and also a very real representation of the pain and horror of having your foot cut off. Why didn’t they do it that way in the movie, I wonder? An issue with special effects? Too graphic for 1990? I don’t think the film suffers from the change.

07/1/12

mid summer crisis

Forget everything that came before. It’s July First and I’d like to make a public announcement: two things matter in the month of July. 1. Crows. 2. my novel. If my feature on crows isn’t done by the end of the month, I go hungry in August. If I don’t finish my novel by the end of the month, I hang myself from the rafters. You care a lot. You heard it here first and you care a lot about what you just heard.

It’s summer, and what could be better than that. Last night I slept in a tent in the backyard in Montana. There was a rock under my head and I still had a good time. There have been dogs in my past and I see more dogs in my future. Pretty soon the river will be warm enough to float on.

Fucking money. Oh my god. Whatever. I might need to get a job. I applied for a job as a “swamper” at a bar this week. What a cool name for a job. It’s not someone who wades in swamp water up to their waist, as the immediate thought association would suggest. It’s just another name for a janitor. You know how I feel about the custodial arts. If you don’t, here’s my position: I am for them.

Here’s something. In a novel or a story, sometimes an upper middle class character will suffer some life change, some unexpected turn of events that will leave them broken and ready to start over. They’ll wander into a place of business and say, “I need a job,” or not even that. Sometimes the owner will just hand them a broom. I think this is how rich people who also write books think the world works. Well. It fucking doesn’t work that way. You fill out an application and then you wait.

I have a masters degree and I still had to give a resume, talk about how good I am at cleaning things and still will wait back to hear if I beat out the other 5 contestants for the job. I hope I get it! I’d rather be a swamper than a copywriter.

Some things about crows: Holy lord, they’re everywhere. They drop nuts in the street, wait for cars to crack the nuts and then eat them. They go sledding on cardboard, for fun. When was the last time you saw crow roadkill? They are too smart to get hit by a car. When you die, your soul doesn’t come back as a crow. The Crow is not a good film.

And there’s more where that came from!

About mollylaich.com: I’m going to try to update more regularly in the month of July and I’m hoping for a site redesign really soon. You care a lot!