“A relationship, I think, is like a shark. You know?
It has to constantly move forward or it dies.
And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark.”
There are certain things I would like to say. I shall not. I will, however, admit to pretending to be a character in a Woody Allen film. I am not quite sure what that would entail if I were to be true to his female characters. While the men, at first Woody himself, embody the fabulous neuroses of the New York intellectual, the women seem to be stale archetypes of the female ideal: Here is the ditz. Here is the kinetic slut. Here is the rational, numb thing that turns away from you in bed. Here is the soul-damaging and sexually depraved raven haired vixen. Here is love. Here is intellect. Here is failure. I know Annie Hall was originally intended to be a murder mystery. It was supposed to be about the inability to feel pleasure. I know the end result is a sad romantic pop-comedy that explores the ebb and flow of feelings. You can’t have sweet without bitter. You can’t have tragedy without comedy. Or is it the other way around? I won’t say the things I want to say. I would be remiss to spell this out to you. You already know. Watch the movies. Pick me out. You can see me, I’m right there.