“Fading Gigolo,” Fading Gracefully

Expectations

I admit, I went into this John Turturro-Woody Allen movie with a high level of anticipation based solely on the fact that Woody Allen was going to be playing a leading role.   For answers as to why this fact was central to my level of expectation, take a look at “A Woody Allen Kind of NYC.”

Expectations Met . . .

Yes, to the extent that Woody Allen was tortured with anxiety, that his face and hand movements singularly broadcast his unique discomfort, and that he invited us, the audience, to agonize with him the way only he can do, Fading Gigolo was all that I hoped it would be.

And to the extent that it not only captured scenes of my beloved Manhattan and Brooklyn, but actually placed the film’s events in believable context within those familiar spots–and didn’t just gratuitously throw the neighborhoods into the mix–it exceeded my expectations.

. . . and Unmet

And yet.  And yet, I found it as implausible that John Turturro would acquiesce to Woody Allen’s scheme, and sell himself for sex, as the idea that Sharon Stone and Sofia Vergara would pay significant sums (or any sums, for that matter) for such sex.

Even more, the theme emanating from timidly beautiful Vanessa Paradis’ widowed Orthodox Jewish mother-of-many, while laying the groundwork for a movie all its own, never was able, for me, to weave itself into the central theme of John Turturro’s turn as a gigolo.

And so . . .

In the end, I left the theatre feeling as if I had received exactly what I had bargained for:  a sentimental visit to my New York story, and a nod to the man who continues to tell it–whether as actor or as director–like no one else can.

A Woody Allen Kind of NYC

Note:  This post began as a review of Fading Gigolo, the 2013 John Turturro movie, featuring Woody Allen as a character that perhaps only Woody Allen can play.  It evolved into a send-up of sorts for the NYC that perhaps lives only in Woody Allen’s movies.

Manhattan-Love

In the mid-1990s, I lived on Manhattan’s East 55th Street.

Down the block from my apartment building, there was a lounge, Michael’s Pub, where  I’d heard that Woody Allen played clarinet.

Many evenings, I would slow my pace as I walked past the pub entrance on my harried way home from the stifling subway station, hoping that I might chance a glance upon the  famed Annie Hall director.

I’d stare at the pub door, relishing the thought that the man whose films evoked the NYC I dreamed of, had mere moments before walked through it.

Even then . . .

Negative news had emerged in the early 90s about Woody Allen.  The photos of Mia’s adopted daughter, Soon-Yi Previn.  The dysfunctional households.  The nasty break-up with Mia Farrow, and of course, the charges that flew back and forth, from one to the other, skimming the Central Park tree tops that separated their two homes.

Even so, I found myself still drawn to this complex man’s films. I know I was not alone.  It was as if there was a sort of disconnect between Woody Allen, the man who romanced the adopted daughter of his long-time girlfriend, and Woody Allen, the director, the maker of movies and the weaver of dreams.

 A Woody Allen Kind of NYC

After all, his movies held the promise of a New York City that had, for all my seasons spent there, still eluded me.  His was a city of scotch and existential sophistication, of chance meetings in wood-paneled bookstores with like-minded people who thought deep thoughts together in brilliant bursts of harmony.

To this day, I’m not sure if that New York City has really ever existed beyond Woody Allen’s movies—and my imagination.