By Woody Allen, 1986.
Starring Woody Allen, Michael Caine, Mia Farrow, Carrie Fisher, Barbara Hershey, Julie Kavner, Lloyd Nolan, Maureen O’Sullivan, Max von Sydow, Sam Waterson, Dianne Wiest. Rating: 8/10, 9.5/10.
There’s something about Woody Allen movies. Something ineffible, something that seems to come accidentally, out of nowhere, in his best movies, something that seems deliberately sought after in his worst. It’s something that makes me love these movies, even, in a way, the bad ones, and it’s something beyond "it was well directed" or "the dialogue was very realistic" or "it was funny" or "the acting was great." Of course, this is film we’re talking about, not faith, so of course it has to emerge out of those and other similar features, but I’m at a loss to say how. Hannah & Her Sisters has it, whatever it is.
One thing that amazes me about Woody Allen is that he seems just as comfortable with huge casts as he is with tiny ones. He’s made movies like this, or like Everyone Says I Love You, with as many major characters as an Altman movie, and then he’s made movies like Purple Rose of Cairo, which only had three, or Annie Hall, which really only had two, and in the audience we barely notice the difference. This one features, first of all, three sisters. There’s Hannah (Farrow), the out-and-out success of the family, the always calm, always providing, always successful in all of her endevours. There’s Holly (Wiest, the love of my life), who is the opposite, always broke, always trying new pursuits unsuccessfully, a coke addict. And there’s Lee (Hershey), who’s kind of just the middle one: pleasant and warm; ordinary, but the most likable. Hannah’s husband is Elliot (Caine), a dopey, self-proclaimed intellectual who thinks that his selfish wish-fulfillment is looking out for others; he thinks he is desparately in love with Lee. Hannah’s first husband is Mickey (Allen), the typical Woody Allen character, hypochondriac. He’s a producer or some sort of head guy on a TV comedy show, and his wise and, well, wonderful assistant is Gail (Kavner, who does Marge Simpson’s voice and seems to really talk like that, only not quite so exaggerated, and who brings a touch of genius to every role she plays, no matter how small). Then there’s Holly’s friend, April (Fisher), who is nothing like Princess Leia, and who has somewhat questionable loyalty to Holly. There’s the architect (Waterson) April and Holly are both trying to snag. There’s Frederick (von Sydow at his sternest), the almost charmingly egomaniacal artist Lee has been living with for years, and whom she feels stifled by—prime for an affair with Elliot. And finally, there’s the sister’s parents (Nolan and O’Sullivan), who display intense frustration and intense love for each other in equal amounts.
Just about everyone has problems at the beginning, and by the halfway point the ones who didn’t before have new ones and those who did have reached almost their breaking points. But by the end (and I don’t think this is the sort of thing that need be concealed), everyone, and I mean everyone has solved all of their problems, and I mean all of them, and is happier than ever. Somehow this ending doesn’t come off seeming sugar-coated or sappy, but rather seems to be the only possible ending—which, of course, it isn’t. I’m almost tempted to say something like "it’s a story of redemption," which it isn’t at all, but it’s something, if not similar, then similar in structure. It’s simultaneously a fresh and original story and one that touches something in the part of the brain reserved for the deepest of archetypal structures. It’s immensely satisfying, not in the way that the false buildup and false resolution of tension in, say, a romantic comedy, is satisfying, but in the way spiritual experiences are supposed to be satisfying. This, though it is Woody Allen at the helm, both of direction and writing, as usual, is not a comedy. There are many funny moments, some of them the funniest Allen has ever done, but the main emotional thrust of the movie is in the realm of drama, even, dare I say, melodrama—in the best possible sense of that word.
In addition to all of this, even though I said at the beginning that the true quality of Woody Allen movies is something above this, it technically is one of his best movies. The dialogue, especially in the opening Thanksgiving dinner scene, but throughout the movie, is some of Allen’s best. And that, my friends, is saying one whole hell of a lot, because I would propose that Woody Allen is the single best writer of realistic dialogue who has ever lived, or at least who has ever worked publicly. And with these actors he has assembled one of his best casts ever, too—and finally, finally, he got his mitts on Dianne Wiest and cast her in a major role. If only he’d do that for Julie Kavner too, I’d be the happiest boy in the world, but I ain’t complaing here. And as for the direction, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that it is definitely the best of all of his movies, or at least of the seventeen of them that I’ve seen. Some might say that Annie Hall wins out automatically, to which I say, yes, the direction was great, but that the editing was what really pushed that one to the top. But in Hannah & Her Sisters, watch for the restaurant scene that is, I believe, the only scene in which we get the three sisters all together without anyone else. It starts off civilly, but soon tensions between Hannah and Holly lead to a fight. This scene, emotionally, takes place from Lee’s point of view, and she feels her life and conscience going out of control, as she sleeps with her sister’s husband and leaves her boyfriend of years. The camera revolves slowly around the table, pointing in, circling behind their heads as they yell at one another. Finally, Lee shouts that it’s enough, that they have to stop. After her outbirst, the camera stops, giving us Lee in profile, and she says, quietly, "I feel dizzy." Another virtuoso sequence is the bookstore scene, between Elliot and Lee, as he subtly (he thinks) seduces her through his taste in literature. The camera is positioned at one end of the stacks, and they’re walking down the aisle at the other end. The camera follows either one or the other, and only the one who is listening, not the one speaking, is ever visible—until one specific moment. It’s wonderful.
This really is one of the very best Woody Allen movies. Certainly no fan of his can go without seeing it, and I’d be willing to bet that even many of his strongest enemies would be impressed, too.