I’ve long since repented a youthful vow to watch every movie Woody Allen ever made. The masterpieces seem so long ago, his young genius flattened into bland competence, his obsessions now overly familiar. And his personal life seems so creepy.
He’s still a master of the ten page comic essay tho, and Mere Anarchy hasn’t lost a step from its illustrious predecessors, Without Feathers, Getting Even, and Side Effects. Here, Micky Mouse testifies in a lawsuit. A writer with literary pretensions gets offered a shot at novelizing a Three Stooges movie. An arrogant moviemaker on a winning streak tries to dramatize the phone book.
It’s all done Groucho Marx style–a series of one liners that sometimes tries too hard, but connects often enough to be fun.