Another Woman

Several posts back I summarized my feelings on the state of the contemporary Woody Allen film. Since 2000, I feel that he has merely been phoning it in, plodding on as if for some unknown mission. A few nights ago I watched ANOTHER WOMAN, his 1988 foray into Ingmar Bergman territory. It wasn't his first, as INTERIORS and A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S SEX COMEDY were clearly inspired by the Swedish auteur whom Woody holds in such high esteem. When ANOTHER WOMAN was over, I sat in silence long after all the familiar title cards flashed. I was stunned for a myriad of reasons: how I could have missed this before, how Woody was able to construct such a haunting drama in such a compact, eighty-four minute package, and how far he has fallen artistically.

Marion Post lives an hermetically sealed, seemingly charmed existence. The chair of a university philosophy department, renowned author, wife of a highly regarded physician, and all around Upper East Side sophisticate, she exudes an air of supereme confidence, of order. As played by Gena Rowlands, we get a strong sense of a woman bound by the strictest imaginable standards for every molecule of her life. However, she is also quite paradoxically prone to the occasional distraction, and therefore decides to rent an apartment specifically to have a neutral zone in which to complete her novel.

One afternoon she makes a curious discovery; she can overhear through an air vent what sounds like a psychotherapy session next door. Through voiceover, Marion describes her initial guilt for even hearing snatches of conversation. Of course, she gradually finds herself drawn into the discussions, particularly those of a young woman who weepingly confesses that she doesn't know if she really loves her spouse, all the more troubling since she is carrying his child. As Marion listens, we see episodes from her own life, past and present. Strangely, they seem to mirror that of the younger patient to whom she is listening. Allen cuts between dream states and reality quite often after this point, though not as enigmatically as Bergman did in say, PERSONA.

Actually, I was thinking of Bergman's WILD STRAWBERRIES throughout this film. While not a remake, it is certainly a generous homage. In both films, We see arch protagonists who keep their loved ones at arm's length, maintaining a chilly distance with intellect and judgment. We meet Marion's father, poignantly played by John Houseman in his final screen appearance, and see where the genes for where such behavior may derive. We also meet several characters with whom Marion intersects: siblings, ex-husbands, potential lovers, childhood friends, step-children, played by another expertly assembled cast of actors such as Gene Hackman, Blythe Danner, Ian Holm, Betty Buckley, Martha Plimpton, Philip Bosco, and several others. All respect and even love her, but also recoil at Marion's tightly calibrated emotional non-responses. Most effectively, we see these characters at different stages of her life, sometimes for real, and sometimes in dreams. At times, it seems that we are speaking with characters in the latter day, being imagined by Marion as to what they would say to her at this late date.

Eventually, Marion meets the young patient, Hope (Mia Farrow). After some brief awkwardness, the two share their burdens over a lunch, during which Marion makes a rather shocking discovery, one that will be the final catalyst as her life takes a sharp turn. The encounter with Hope brings into nearly blinding focus the multitude of miscalculations Marion had made in her life choices. Not professional, but relational. In her pursuit for steeliness, for intellectual gratification, she shut out true love, the ability to listen, to share. In a brilliant sequence, Allen uses a theater stage onto which the cast of players in Marion's life step into the spotlight, revealing old wounds. It reminded me of the effective closing act of Our Town, in which the deceased spoke lamentations of their former lives, and their gloomy present. Marion, however, still has time to correct certain things.

As I thought on ANOTHER WOMAN, it occured to me that perhaps Hope was not a real person at all. An alter ego? An angel? Hard to say. But not real, at least not flesh and blood real, anyway. Futher analysis of such I will not attempt here, and doing so is sometimes treacherous, again going back to the viewer's own paradigms. And so, after Marion resolves several issues with family and acquaintances, she checks in with the therapist next door, only to find that Hope ended her therapy, and had moved on with no forwarding address. Marion does much the same.

I mentioned that I could not believe that I had missed this film during its original run. In a way, I'm glad that I waited. The central theme of ANOTHER WOMAN is middle-aged regret, of stopping and finding yourself saddled with memories of lost opportunities, of perhaps being at a point of no return. Had I watched this film at age 19, it without question would not have resonated as strongly. At 39, it's a crusher, no matter how "together" one's life may be.

Woody himself should clear the set of his latest hokum and screen this masterful film. Perhaps it will remind him of what he is hopefully still capable.