Seems Like Old Times

Annie Hall is a movie of moments. Told out of sequence and focusing more on character than plot, it’s difficult to reflect upon after one or two viewings and put things in order. Did this scene come first? When was that? Was that before or after? It’s a film about remembering, and so often our memories consist of single events, not a continuous line of them. And as such, to contemplate Annie Hall is to contemplate individual moments—but oh, what precious little moments they are.

Arguably Woody Allen’s finest film, Annie Hall is incredibly ambitious in its lack of ambition. It’s the story of two lovers, but it shies away from exciting adventures or fantastic situations one finds in many romantic films—it’s no African Queen or Gone With the Wind, certainly. And there’s no insurmountable outside force they have to face, either—Wuthering Heights and even Beauty and the Beast beat it there. No, Annie Hall is just about people who meet, fall in love, and inexplicably fall out of it. There’s nothing remarkable at all about its plot, except that such things happen every day. And as we watch as Alvy Singer (Allen) recollects his relationship with Annie Hall (Diane Keaton), it’s hard not to reflect on something similar that once happened to us.

Consider one of the film’s best scenes—when their relationship is at its zenith, Annie and Alvy have decided to prepare a romantic lobster dinner, a decision that ultimately culminates in several fugitive crustaceans scuttling about the kitchen floor as the two frantically try to thwart their meal’s escape, laughing and giggling and joking the whole time. What a wonderful scene it is—in a scant few minutes, Allen captures the universality of “the good times,” those perfect moments with that certain someone, when all our worries, fears, insecurities, doubts, and sorrows evaporate in a transcendent moment of bliss. Even if you’ve never chased lobsters around a kitchen with someone you loved, you know exactly what feeling those characters have. We’ve all had the little moments, whether it was dancing in the rain on a drizzly night, or skipping stones on a dirty pond, or simply staying up together until the sun rises, doing nothing but talking. First and foremost, that’s where Annie Hall takes us—to those few magic moments when everything was alright.

Things don’t stay so good forever, though. Eventually Alvy and Annie begin to pay more attention to their differences than their relationship. Annie is annoyed by Alvy’s neurosis (and fascination with death), while Alvy is likewise irritated by Annie’s newfound pseudo-intellectualism when she starts taking adult education courses (which was his idea, interestingly enough). Things come to a head when Annie wants to move to Los Angeles to pursue a singing career, while Alvy is so in love with New York that he can’t bring himself to make such a change. Eventually the two split up. So it goes.

It’s during the film’s final scenes that we realize the importance of those little moments. As Alvy reflects on his broken relationship, he doesn’t even think about all the bad times or how seemingly incompatible he and Annie were. Annie is definitely a ditz, and Alvy is certainly neurotic, insecure, selfish, and a bit of a prick—but all of that took a backseat to the fact that they actually cared about each other. Or at least they used to. That’s all Alvy remembers—they were in love, and then they weren’t. The unfortunate events that led to the decline didn’t even register in his memory; he admits in his opening monologue that he just doesn’t know what happened.

Those fleeting seconds of happiness are so elusive; they can’t be manufactured. There’s a particularly pathetic scene where Alvy tries to recreate the aforementioned lobster night with some chain-smoking girl he’s with now. As he frantically chases the critters around, trying desperately to inspire the same kind of fun, she just can’t understand why he doesn’t simply pick them up. And she’s certainly not amused when Alvy tells her he hasn’t been himself since he quit smoking, which was sixteen years ago. “I don’t understand. Is that a joke?” she asks him. The lack of response and despondent look on his face reveals what we already understand—the magic just ain’t there, and he knows it.

The film ends with Alvy narrating about the last time he saw Annie. She’d come back to New York, was dating someone else, and was dragging her new guy to see The Sorrow and the Pity—a movie to which Alvy introduced her. They have lunch and catch up for a few hours before they part ways once more, and as the final shot rolls we hear Alvy talking about how great it was just knowing her.

He was probably right.