Woody Allen said once that he was the main actor of his own films - among others - for the practical consideration that this way he has to give substantially less directory instructions and thus he saves quite a lot of energy. May this statement be cynical and misleading as it seems, I believe Allen. Yet I do not think that the lack of material substances in his newest opus could merely be explained by his undertaking a greater stress as a director or the increase in the energy used as a director. In addition to all this at the middle of the film I am obliged to state that the personal presence of the master is not missing from the production, even when I am completely aware of how well the film screen suits him and mainly, how well New York, even the New York of sixty years ago suits him. What is more, the figure of one of the main players, the dramatist David Shayne invokes, though somewhat superficially, the figures who were interpreted by Allen all through his career and in spite of the actors being very good this frustrates me again. Fortunately there is no time left to brood over this while watching the film, as the piece is easy-flowing, sometimes even drifting, the viewer is taken by the story and you get to the almost happy end when the greatest secret is revealed, too, that is why not Woody Allen played the main role of Bullets over Broadway.
The most recent work of Woody Allen is, namely, a tale of lesson. It is a somewhat moodily ended, yet not sentimental and not a bit didactic parable on art. It tells about the creation (both the process and its result) which needs to remain pure under all circumstances, bargain can only be made exclusively for the sake of aesthetics, and this sacred aesthetics cannot be influenced or damaged by any other external, vested interest otherwise the creation looses its most crucial essence. And when this illuminating conclusion is compared to the Freudian urban intellectualism of the Master and to the mentally unsatisfied and psychically hurt figures struggling in the tide of banal life with the life-suit of intellectual existence, so familiarly reminiscing on the screen of our memories from his former interpretations, then you can state with confidence that indeed, how stupid, embarrassing and most of all, how incredible he would be in a tale of lessons. Nevertheless a tale must be credible first of all, it must be honest, controllable not by conscience but instincts and emotions, and as it is known too well, Allen knows no pardon in this, he is not willing to sell his credibility as an artist for anything. He rather made the compromise with his actor-self, restricted himself and wisely stayed behind the camera, in order to be able to tell his quasi ars poetic universal tale. For in this special case it is really all the same whether it takes place in New York or not, he once made the New York man before in co-operation with Coppola and Scorsese.
Allen put his parable in a real environment of the past and he also added different substances as long as the topic of the tale could stand it. So the story takes place in the alcohol smuggling, gangster-ridden world of the thirties (it seems that the director felt only this second heroic era of the States filthy enough in order to make the contrast with the white driven snow spectacularly), where a young poor dramatist decides to be a hit on the Broadway. First it seems that he knows no compromise, he does not let to take anyone else the direction or the selection of the players. Thus, unfortunately, no money is available for the implementation. Fortunately his producer finds the proper supporter in the form of a much dreaded gangster, but the money man has a condition: a role has to be cast to his unnervingly idiotic pussy, who is, by her original profession, a sub-element of the dance choir of a revue of doubtful fame. And this is not all: the little goose appears in the company of a bad-faced and coarse gorilla on each of the rehearsals, for the almost illiterate boss regards the actors to be a suspicious lot. Though clumsily, the work begins and through this the hero gets out of the company consisting of his misunderstood fellow-genies considered to be rich in intellect, into the elite art of Broadway, and into the snobbish glitter belonging to its halo, which is stinking rich, very much over-confident and so glamorous as to believe idiocy to be omnipotent. This change however, has a higher price than the compromise made with the gangster boss. The dramatist Shayne, unnoticed and voluntarily, without being under compulsion is compelled to give up his own personality and all this he believes to be a glory. He keeps on changing his play considered to be genial, believing each and every correction to be an improvement, when at once it turns out that the whole thing is rotten as it is. The machine is almost broken down when help arrives from the most unexpected place: Cheech, this slum chap who acts as the body guard on the side of the girlfriend of his boss having ascended to the rank of actress, barks in without being asked, how this stuff could be transformed into something useful, and to the greatest astonishment of everybody things begin to move again. There is nothing to wonder about this since the killer sat out all the rehearsals as part of his assignment and regarded the play as one of the audience, the outsider and therefore he is the only relevant person to tell what and how should be changed. After this Shayne and Cheech meet in secret and while the dramatist plays the billiards, the tough guy reshapes this or that passage. Triggered by the fact that Cheech is beginning to have the welfare of the play at heart, everything goes smoothly and everyone is maximally satisfied - except for the gangster himself. He can easily accept that his creation should appear under a different name, but he cannot, however, agree that the completely hopeless, half-idiot girl of the boss impaired the quality. The solution is given as part of his original profession: he does away with the pussycat by some good shots. The play is thus saved, but Cheech is not, as his employer finds out about the trick and he gives the verdict according to the habits prevailing in these circles. Shayne is compelled to realise his lack of aptitude through this tragedy and his girlfriend's leaving him. He returns to his home town to engage himself in his original occupation becoming a teacher and as a reward, he regains the love of his girlfriend.
This is thus a story on the power of art which might also be true. For, alas - we have many examples of it - art is worth dying for it. Sometimes you even have to. As deceived dilettantes blinded by ambition and genial talents sometimes do perish. As for dramatists like Shayne, they do not retire most of the time but write a new play on casualties. So imperfectly tailored is the world around us.
Just the film seemingly does not build on this imperfection, no special tricks, no narrative ruse, no dramatic virtuosity so fashionable nowadays. Bullets over Broadway is as traditional as a classical popular movie and this reinforces its formerly mentioned credibility arising from the topic. The structure is tense, story telling easy, that is - say - consumable by everyone, yet this strict attachment to the traditions turns into the reverse when depicting a world and a state where violence dictates and in the interpretation of a story where the main role is for the absurd insisting on something. At the same time on a different level this imperfection can be felt all the time because Allen has not forgotten about the fact that his name is a guarantee for humour and irony. All his figures are outshaped, they are rather caricatured than typified, he gives the fillip to everybody and everything, mostly the cultural background which his much beloved America and its metropolis is still built on and he himself active in. And Bullets over Broadway is the newest proof how you can make a tale for lessons with Voltaireian irony and elegance, without taking any risks, so that it is an example for others at the end of the twentieth century.
