Dear Woody Allen

Dear Woody Allen:

It has been some time now since Dylan Farrow has come out with her open letter. The letter has been haunting me for the past few days. On one hand I am (note the tense) a diehard fan of your work; on the other hand I absolutely loathe you for what you had done to Dylan.

I have watched each and every movie (literally) you have directed and/or written and/or acted in (barring, of course, Fading Gigolo: I have still not managed to obtain a copy) and have watched as many documentaries on you as I could. Additionally, I have read through your Complete Works at breakneck pace.

I am not the only one, either. Your career has been a long journey punctuated by awards and achievements. They have a life-size statue of you at Oviedo.

I was really never bothered when you had a relationship with Soon-Yi Previn. Why? Because

-          You and Mia Farrow never married;

-          You did not adopt Soon-Yi: she had been adopted by André Previn and Mia Farrow;

-          Soon-Yi was an adult when the consensual relationship happened.

For these reasons I could never bring myself to dislike you. It had seemed like Manhattan all over again, only in real life.

So I continued to remain a loyal fan: I know my Annie Hall back to front; I can almost recite that confession in the penultimate scene in Manhattan; I often laugh out loud over Love and Death while walking alone; I revisited Play it Again, Sam by watching it after Casablanca; I did get goosebumps while watching Midnight in Paris; and Zelig still impresses me as much as any other movie in history.

I have always believed that an artist should be judged by his work – which is why I have immense respect for the works of Klaus Kinski and Roman Polanski (what is it with those -skis?) but loathe them as personalities. I have not stopped watching their movies (and will not, either) but would certainly not want to know them in real life.

With Woody it has been different. He is not just a great director or screenplay-writer: he was a person I had looked up to and respected; whose sense of humour I admired and even envied; he was a person I forgave despite the fact that he was in a relationship with Diane Keaton (sigh!); but this is different:

-          Woody Allen had adopted Dylan himself; and

-          Dylan was seven when the incident had taken place.

My daughter is ten. No, I cannot like this person anymore.

This was a huge decision for me – whether to give up on Allen completely. Of course, there was no doubt whatsoever that I respected his work as much as I used to do (though I must admit that I have to suspect the reason for making Match Point and Crimes and Misdemeanours – the foundation of which were based on guilt).

Nicked from the internet, as usual

However, do I respect him anymore? Do I look up to him? Am I jealous of his abilities? What about those outstanding one-liners?

Once again, with Kinski and Polanski things have been different: I never cared for them as personalities; they have been only artists to me, and continue to remain that way.

Not with Woody: he had made me laugh and pensive at the same time in a way nobody has been able to; I was Alvy Singer, I was Emmet Ray, I was Sid Waterman, I was Gil, I was Isaac, I was Boris, and I was Kleimnan. It was not as if I could relate to them: I was them.

My heart had a special corner for you, Woody Allen.

That has changed.

Now I am not them: I have distanced myself from them. I used to relate to them. Not that it matters to you, but I feel betrayed, Woody Allen.

You should not have done this to me.

This is simply not done.