Whatever Works
by Woody Allen
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Actor: Conleth Hill, Ed Begley Jr., Evan Rachel Wood, Larry David, Patricia ClarksonDirector: Woody Allen
Brand: Sony
DVD: Region Code 99
Audio: English (Unknown); English (Original Language)
Format: AC-3, Color, Dolby, DVD, NTSC, Widescreen
Picture Format: Anamorphic Widescreen, 1.78:1
Running Time: 92 minutes
DVD Release Date: 2009-10-27
Audience Rating: PG-13 (Parental Guidance Suggested)
Studio: Sony Pictures Home Entertainment
DVD Reviews of Whatever Works
DVD Review: Woody No Goody.
Summary: 1 Stars
Dear Mister Woody Allen,
Woody, boychick, now listen carefully ....
Stop putting people in your movies whose sole job is to imitate you. You did that with Kenneth Branagh in "Celebrity." You even had that poor shiksa Diane Keaton imitate you in "Love and Death." And now you do the same thing in this movie with Larry David.
Is there no end to your ego?
What's the audition process? ... "You can imitate me, great -- YOU'RE HIRED!"
Take it from me, Yasha J. Banana -- at 97-years-old, the oldest living Amazon movie reviewer (if you call this living) -- one of you is enough already!
Where do you find all these quality actors willing to make complete fools of themselves in your movies? Are you their idea of a philosopher?
You know what they mean by "arrested development?" -- people who physically grow into adulthood but who emotionally never got past high school. You got past high school alright, but you never made it out of Freshman Philosophy 101 at N.Y.U.
Okay, already, God doesn't exist. Life stinks. You're gonna die. We're *all* gonna die. Thanks for the information. Thanks for sharing. Without you, who knew?
So for how long are you going to keep repeating these eternal verities? When are you going to break in some new material, boychick?
Woody, my boy, listen carefully. ... You're not brilliant. ... You're not a genius. ... You're a case study in narcissism. See Christopher Lasch's 1980 book, "The Culture of Narcissism," in which he mentions you. And by name already! He's got the goods on you, bubi. The jig is up. He depants you, just like in junior high. Right? You remember?
Put that in your movie.
You're just lucky that when it comes to mainstream Hollywood movies, you're the only philosopher on the block. I mean, compared to you Freddy Krueger isn't exactly Fredrich Nietzsche. Drew Barrymore isn't exactly Ayn Rand. And Mel Gibson isn't exactly Martin Buber. Or even Myron Cohen for that matter.
What a shame Larry David, that nice Jewish boy, is in your movie. Now there's a funny man. Does he make me laugh! He opens his mouth, I wet my pants.
You should be in *his* movie, you little putz! Five minutes of "Curb Your Enthusiasm" is funnier than all your movies put together.
There wer emore laughs in the Crimean War than in any of your movies.
In fact, 30 seconds of my third wife sitting on your face is funnier than all your movies put together.
Also, this may come as a shock to you, Woody my boy, but you're not God's gift to women. Old or young.
No-sir, no-sir ... NO-SIR!
In "The Curse of the Jade Scorpion" you had the nerve, the chutzpah, to cast yourself as a leading man opposite what's-her-name, the shiksa, Helen Hunt. ... Woody, my boy, she's half your age! (Okay, so I schtupped Sophie Tucker when I was 17-years-old and she was growing a mustache, so sue me -- but *you,* Woodala, a little twerp like you, do you really think these young gals go for you, or is it all that loot you've made preaching morality to the masses?
With your one year of college and the philosphy class you jerked around in.
From you, morality? Ho boy! This is like asking Humbert Humbert for directions to a convent for pre-pubescent nuns.
Okay, got your thinking cap on now, Woody, mensch that you think you are? Got that thinking cap in place? In this movie, "Whatever Works," there's an old guy played by Larry David. Okay, guess who he's supposed to be.
Think hard now.
And he falls in love with a young girl about one-thirteenth his age.
Now guess who *she's* supposed to be.
Take your time, you yutz. Pretty soon it'll all be clear.
I mean, are you delusional, or wha? We know already what you have to say about old men and young girls, and if it's not immature, it's tiresome. And if it's not puerile, it's doggie ca-ca. Your Freshman Philosophy 101 pontificating gives me *such* a pain, you have no idea. ... Right in the tukas. ... I wouldn't wish such a pain on an Arab who's in business next door to me.
Get a life, Woody my boy! Punch a ball. Run after a car. Sit, have a cup coffee.
Just stop making movies!
Here's a thought. You wanna know about existential dread, instead of just pontificating about it? Get a job in the Post Office! *Then* write a movie! Philosophize your head off. We'll be waiting with baited breath.
You know, Amazon has its star ratings, but I have my -- are you ready for this? -- I have my Yasha Banana "Ca-Ca Ratings." And you hold the all time ca-ca record. Yes you do! In fact, in this movie, you made such a big, smelly ca-ca that farmers from miles will line up to buy some.
And all over the nice rug. Ya happy, Stewart Alan Konisberg? Ya happy? Would it help if we took your rattle away?
Better ye, maybe we should put salt-peter in your pablum.
Listen carefully now, Mister Woody Allen. ... We don't *care* that for you life stinks. Did you ever think that maybe YOU stink? See, simple, you got it backwards. Life doesn't stink -- *you* stink.
Please, take some advice from me, Yasha J. Banana (nonogenarian, flute-tuner and part-time exercise boy at Belmont Park) -- you're 75-years-old -- crying, screaming and throwing a tantrum that life's no good and we're all gonna die, over and over and over -- in *all* your movies ... should embarrass you, you big cry baby.
Why, if I was 20 years younger I'd depants you myself, you little cocker!
Listen, bubi, I'm not saying don't nem di gelt. Sure, take the money and run. You never know when an extra million or two can help you through a rough patch of existential horror. Still, genius-philosopher that you are, you don't see the irony do you? You're critical, movie after movie, of how stupid and short-sighted people are, but these are the same people stupid enough to say how great you are. These are the same people -- the people you look down on -- who've made you rich and famous.
You're a self-loathing narcissist. And from this you've made a fortune. (And without even a partner!) Mazel tov. You're a regular Willie Sutton: you know where the money is -- in people's longing to be as narcissistic as you are! You're a role model for infantile narcissism!
Called before the court of public opinion, here's what I suggest you say in your defense: "I STINK AND I CAN PROVE IT!"
So go ahead, pour your heart and soul out to the anonymous strangers who see your movies. God knows, self-absorbed that you are, those strangers are no doubt the only people you can relate to, you oversocialized, latte-sipping ying-yang, you.
Consider yourself lucky that in a culture of narcissism, you're America's poster boychick.
Consider yourself lucky that for someone who's taken P.T. Barnum advice to heart ("There's a sucker born every minute; and two guys to take him"), as well as that of H.L. Mencken ("You'll never go broke underestimating tghe intelligence of the American public) ... you're making a nice living.
You should be the happiest person in the world! For someone who a.) has never done an honest day's work in his life, and b.) knows absolutely nothing about how billions of people live -- NEM DI GELT! Be lucky that you're not blocking hats, or selling aluminum siding, or trying to find parts for a '79 Dodge Dart.
Most moviemakers, insulated as they are from the real work, have absolutely no idea as regards the, as Howard Zinn put it, "felt lives" of average human beings. You, Woody Allen, being a case in point.
The directors who worked in Hollywood in the 30s, 40s and 50s, some of them still working on into the 60s and 70s -- these were individuals who had "lived life." Billy Wilder, Fritz Lang, Douglas Sirk, Edgar Ulmer, Robert Siodmak, Max Ophuls, John Huston, Ernst Lubitsch, John Ford, Samuel Fuller, Erich Von Stroheim. You could see it in their work and you could see it in their faces.
I look at your face, Woody my boy, and I get nau-u-u-u-seous. Pastrami sandwiches I ate back in 1957 threaten to reappear. What have *you* experienced, you schmuck poseur? -- other than air conditioning, cable teevee and bothering young girls?
(By the way, before I forget, if you have any extra young girls, put them in a box and mail them to me. I'll pay the postage.)
NOw, where was I? Oh yeah, I'm sorry you're overcome with guilt. After I give myself an enema I'm going to have a tree planted in Israel for you, I feel so bad about your guilt.
Still, it's understandable -- why *shouldn't* you feel guilty? You've made the same shallow, self-absorbed, self-indulgent, movie over and over and over, for several decades now. WHINE, WHINE, WHINE! If there was an Olympic Whining Team, you'd not only be the captain, you'd complain about the accomodations.
The fact that you're still making the same movie, still dishing out the same pseudo-philosophical ca-ca, over and over and over, reminds me of when they nabbed Jim Bakker. You know, the religious fake, the husband of Tammy Lee Bakker. After he was convicted, the newspaper guys asked our boy Jim: "Why'd you do it? Why'd you steal all those millions?" To which the not-so-right reverend Bakker replied: "Because people kept sending me money. What was I supposed to do?"
Alas, this is your tragedy, Woody my boy. This is why you're constantly whining. This is why you're so unhappy, so riddled with guilt. Because you know you're a diminutive, no-talent schwit -- BUT PEOPLE KEEP COMING TO YOUR MOVIES! -- and what are you supposed to do, screw the pooch, let them in on the con, tell them you're a no-talent fraud?
(By the way, just box and mail to me one young girl at a time, k? I may be short that week, re, the postage due.)
Meanwhile, take a hike. I told you about the enema I'm going to give myself? I can't waste anymore time trying to straighten you out -- my kishkas are rolling around like Eddie Cantor's eyeballs.
Hoping everything comes out all right. For me, that is,
Your pal,
Yash
P.S. Write if you get work.
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