[This long-form review of Woody Allen’s CRIMES AND MISDEMEANORS appears in Alex Sheremet’s “Woody Allen: Reel to Real.” You can also watch our conversation reviewing the film here.]
If Another Woman is a great film that hasn’t yet received its due, then Crimes and Misdemeanors is a widely-praised film whose greatness, while generally acknowledged, is often misunderstood. At its core, the film is not only about a hyper-realistic killer (as opposed to merely a ‘torn,’ freakish, or symbolic one), but also about the winners and losers that surround him, who not only shed light on his import, but on the lives and personalities of millions just like him. In fact, it is one of the film’s seemingly most throwaway lines — “might makes right” — that brings this idea to the fore, even as it obscures some more nuanced moments. To see it in action, one simply needs to look at how the film’s relationships bud and die. Halley rejects Cliff because he’s a loser, and falls for the vapid and loathsome Lester because he’s a success. A stranger humiliates Cliff’s naive, lonely sister merely because he can, and she’s only too willing. Dolores is not only killed, but her utter shallowness is remembered by Judah, even after her death, wherein she confuses musical composers, or waxes poetic on the eyes being “windows to the soul,” despite us knowing that her own eyes were empty, with neither definition nor identity when she was killed. Yet, for all this, it is Judah at the center of it all, and it’s Judah who, far more than being a mere symbol or plaything, is something far more real. He is ‘just another guy’ living at home, raising his kids, going to work, and giving to charity, separated only by the style and the frequency of his rationalizations, while the fact that he is ultimately a “winner,” to use Dan Schneider’s word,[1] affirms the Bible’s oft-ignored dictum: for whoever has, more shall be given, but whoever does not have, even that shall be taken away. This is ‘might’ as it begets might, and riches for the Judah Rosenthals, but even as Judah argues at film’s end, no fairy tales, nor happy endings.
The film begins with a celebration of Judah Rosenthal’s (Martin Landau) philanthropy at an event, whose praise is interspersed with other scenes, such as Judah receiving a letter from his mistress, Dolores, earlier that day, who threatens to reveal all to his family if he doesn’t break off his marriage. Thus, against genre tropes, some of his flaws are already laid out, even as Judah gives his speech, spliced with poetic images of the boy at prayer, quoting his father’s comment, “the eyes of God are on us always.” Judah, now a religious ophthalmologist, wonders if such words could have influenced his choice of profession, a ‘noble’ question which is immediately paired with another scene of Judah confronting Dolores (Anjelica Huston) at her apartment, as he promises to “work something out.” It’s an interesting choice, for even now one gets a realistic look at how most people deal with or otherwise treat religion, as things for comment or even genuine personal growth, only to renege in 99%+ of moments where it ceases to apply. This is a clue to Judah’s later behavior, given the clear “flexibility” (to borrow Schneider’s word again) of his morals now.
Meanwhile, unemployed film director Cliff Stern (Woody Allen) is with his niece as they watch an old black and white comedy where a man gets thrown out of the house after “using” his woman. Structurally, then, this is the film’s comedic version of the same basic conflicts, for while nobody gets killed on this side of the celluloid, they are still divided into winners and losers as strength prevails over decency, with the losers marred by thoughts and longings for which they themselves have few solutions. Cliff returns home to his wife, Wendy (Joanna Gleason), an emotionless shrew who neither loves nor respects her ‘loser’ husband, inviting him to dinner with her brother, Lester (Alan Alda), a vain hack-producer of bad television. Cliff sees through him, but is impotent, for Lester is both aggressive and rich — precisely the opposite of Cliff, who nonetheless gets a job offer from his brother-in-law to film the man’s life work “as a favor” to Wendy, given their financial woes. Cliff accepts, and we get to see Lester’s brother, Ben (Sam Waterston), a rabbi who is slowly going blind. As he drives, Judah gets a flashback to Boston, where he first met Dolores through a poetic overlay of image and narrative. Dolores calls him, demanding his attention, thus prompting further anger and doubt, even as he works on Ben’s eyes and needs to “take a minute” to think, while the slit lamp’s red dot — narrow, difficult to read — is both Ben’s dwindling sight, as well as something ‘closing off’ inside of Judah, who in a later scene is almost an abyss’s length away from Ben, via the long shadows on the instrument, as he tries to help him. Judah confides in Ben, telling him of the affair, while Ben says, correctly, that he simply needs to admit the affair to his wife, Miriam, an option Judah rejects, given that he sees himself as a “realist,” and Ben’s talk of change and forgiveness as apart from his world. Suddenly, we get an even richer flashback, this time from Dolores, as Judah and Dolores jog on the beach below a sunset, while Judah gets worried and wishes to leave. It’s an interesting time to feel self-conscious given the fact that they are anonymous and completely alone, unlike almost anywhere else. Does he, underneath the color and the sky, feel God’s eyes, the aloneness merely exacerbating the ‘sparks’ of religion he experiences throughout the film? It’s subtle and poetic, further characterizing Judah, even as critics such as Jonathan Rosenbaum complain of the film’s “cardboard profile” without offering much evidence, or simply choose to ignore it.[2] Nor do we know whether Judah’s words, “Someday we’ll have a lot of time,” are real, or merely her imagination, for she’d already shown herself to be unbalanced, and in some ways as selfish as Judah. In fact, as he barges in on her flashback, she throws herself at him, accuses him of embezzlement, and tries to further blackmail him into leaving Miriam, despite neither being wanted nor loved by Judah any longer. This is simply flat-out great writing, as Dan Schneider interprets the same scene and its import:
A good example of why the screenplay is so great is the character of Dolores Paley, played by Anjelica Huston. She is a minor character; in essence serving as the ‘in’ to Judah Rosenthal, but Allen does not skimp. She is a fully realized character. Look at the scene where she is recalling her past with Judah, and we then see her soberly staring off into the ether. The doorbell rings, she runs to it, and embraces Judah. We get the memory, which is positive, her reflection, which makes her seem to rue it, her desperation in running to the door, and then her blackmail threat. In a minute or so we get a complex arc of a character. But, while fully developed, she is also used as a device to get the viewer to sympathize with the amoral Judah. Her whininess, pettiness, self-importance, self-deceits, threats to Judah and his family, all make us dislike her, well rounded or not, and subtly make us actually want Judah to off her. Thus we are subliminally made to feel what Judah feels, and thus a small sense of complicity and guilt is rooted in most viewers.
This is not only true, but completely necessary for the film, as developing ideas, first, without caring about character and other ‘frills,’ ensures the film would be static philosophy masquerading as art. Instead, it explores real people, in real situations, yet compressed just enough so that, while still believable, their every word, action, and thought has import and drives the narrative along.
Cliff is now taping Lester, who spouts off on various things, with phrases such as “Tragedy is comedy plus time” — a silly, obvious comment that nonetheless captures this little slice of the film’s structure, as well as the fate of many of the characters within. Halley (Mia Farrow) is working on the film, too, while both Cliff and Lester set their eyes on her, with Halley rejecting Lester’s advances through mild rebukes. Halley and Cliff go back to Cliff’s studio, where he shows her some footage he’s shot of Professor Levy, a philosopher who ends up tangentially commenting on the film’s ideas. They are both impressed, but Cliff, especially, who contrasts it with Lester’s material: “no limos, no bimbos,” just straight, intelligent talk from an interesting man.
Meanwhile, Judah, in one of the film’s most telling scenes, calls up his brother, Jack (Jerry Orbach), a man with ties to the underworld, and ‘confides’ in him about the affair. He clearly doesn’t give a damn about his brother or his opinion, but merely wishes to get rid of Dolores, slimily leading Jack to make the suggestion first, so that Judah could feel like the better man afterwards. Interestingly, Jack, as Dan Schneider points out, first tells Judah to merely confess, as does Ben, yet it is Judah who resists, and Judah who is, for some reason or other, presently owed a “favor,” implying that Judah is even more deeply involved in shady things than the film shows. Yet Judah ultimately tells him no, while Jack, in a symbolic moment, tells his brother: “I can’t afford to be aloof.” As Judah slips into Jack’s world, it is a phrase that he repeats, for the world he’s long ignored is quite real, and Dolores — dumb, anonymous, lacking money or prestige — drags him into a part of it that he simply does not want to return to. It’s a beautifully-acted scene, from Judah’s insistent “I can’t do it,” uttered all the while looking about as if in fact torn, to Jack’s deep self-knowledge, for Jack knows what he himself is, and can only shake his head at his self-deluding brother. The problem only deepens when Judah is home for his birthday party and Dolores phones him from a gas station across the street. It’s a close call, which forces him to rethink Jack’s (i.e., Judah’s) suggestion. There is thunder outside, and Woody Allen nicely inverts the typical ‘horror’ cliché by not so much pairing Judah’s meditation with evil, but with turmoil, while the ghost-like appearance of Ben gives a religious tinge to his brooding. At the end of their great exchange, Judah seems to have come to a decision, and says: “Jack lives in the real world. You live in the kingdom of heaven. I’ve managed to keep free of that real world, but suddenly, it’s found me.” This is yet even more great writing, as Judah calls Jack and tells him to “move ahead” with the plan.
In the interim, Lester is seen acting like an ass, yelling at his office workers as he’s being taped, insisting that they “don’t know funny,” and that “Oedipus is funny.” Halley and Cliff find him ridiculous, only to feel recharged when they go watch Professor Levy, who waxes philosophic on love. In a marvelous shot, a man is seen getting out of his car; a man who, for a second, almost looks like Judah. A bridge is close by, and it is sunset, paralleling Judah’s earlier scene at the beach. Yet as soon as he starts following Dolores, we know that the man is in fact the killer, an especially frightening revelation because, just like Judah, he looks so plain, a white-haired man who neither has the ‘tics’ nor look of a murderer, despite being precisely that.
At home, Judah is told of the murder, and this shakes him. Yet as soon as it’s done, he starts thinking of the evidence still inside her apartment — pictures and the like — linking the two, and decides to go back. In another great bit of acting, Judah is in a near-hypnotic state, shaking hands with everyone, telling them, mechanically, that he must “leave,” for he’s left something at the office. How well he pulls it off, and how little the others notice the utter strangeness in his face, shows how much of this politesse is rehearsed in ‘that’ world, how much of Judah (and his friends, too) is downright phony. He removes the photos from her apartment, then stares into her eyes, noticing how blank they are, and how little there is behind them. The guilt starts to gnaw at him, almost to the point of confessing — a great set-up and narrative arc, given how deeply it is undermined at film’s end.
Lester, Wendy, Cliff, and Halley are at a restaurant, and Halley’s jabs at Lester seem good-natured now, as they’re smiling at each other, and possibly getting closer. At home, Cliff goes on about how much of a creep Wendy’s brother is, only to have Wendy get belligerent and slam the door while he’s speaking. Cliff realizes Halley has invited Lester to her apartment, while Ben’s eyes are getting tested by Judah once again, with the shadows marking a great abyss between them. Ben asks of the affair, and in another great bit of scripting, Judah merely informs that she “listened to reason” — a great line, given how ‘reason’ gets conflated with brute force in the film, whether its Judah’s rationalizations of murder, or Lester’s outward success being taken as evidence of his inner goodness and depth. Jack hears of Judah’s growing turmoil, and even threatens him if he’d talk, all the while shaking his head at the fact that Judah is so affected by something he not only wanted, but tried to suggest first.
Judah visits his old home, where memories begin to flood him. At one point, he sees himself at the dinner table with his father, Saul, and different family members. Saul is praying, only to get criticized by a couple of diners, including a cynical woman who declares that there is no law, no structure, no morality, and that only “might makes right” — for how else to explain the Nazis, and various other evils? Saul declares he’d accept God even before the truth, while others express shock at the thought. The adult Judah chimes in, and asks about murder, only to be told (as with Ben) that “murder will out,” one way or the other, thus driving him even more deeply to despair. That night, he gets a call from a detective who wishes to speak to him, and pretty soon, it seems all over.
Cliff is again watching a movie with his niece, wherein Betty Hutton’s Murder He Says plays, as part of the comedic side of the above conflict. Soon, Cliff learns that Professor Levy commits suicide, and is shocked at the note left behind: “I’ve gone out the window.” On the one hand, this seems to cast doubt on the wisdom of Levy’s earlier comments, not only on God, but love and, later, on personal choices, and what their sums entail. In fact, those that buy into the ‘glitz’ and appearances, as Lester does, and as Halley will later, would think less of Levy’s comments given what’s transpired, but on the other hand, his words are of ‘another world,’ one where people behave through ideals, and where wisdom is not merely situational, but immanent. It is Ben’s “kingdom of heaven,” as well as Cliff’s, who, like Levy and Ben, has ideals and convictions that are in many ways superior, despite not being allowed to play out in real life for reasons that only come out later. Cliff and Halley kiss, but even then, it’s not to be, for she is simply not of Cliff’s make.
The detective visits Judah, and to his relief, little comes of it. Despite this, Judah grows more and more agitated, snaps at his family, and hears ‘phantom’ calls in the night. In a screening room, Lester is finally shown Cliff’s video project, which captures Lester perfectly by showing him in the worst possible light, complete with shots of Mussolini, a donkey repeating Lester’s idiotic words, and even Lester in an intimate moment with a young, pretty co-worker, to whom he promises a little ‘getting ahead’ in exchange for getting to know “what’s in here,” as he points to his own chest. It’s a bad, almost extreme film, funny to the audience, no doubt, but strange and offensive to Lester, who immediately fires him. Yet Cliff’s look is of genuine surprise — he really did think that Lester would be all right with this, thus casting doubt on Cliff’s intellect. What’s more, the film, as shown, does not seem to be a very good one, implying that Cliff and Lester are not true opposites, after all. If Lester is a passionless hack, with no ideas nor talent of his own, Cliff is a ‘visionary’ hack, both spineless and forever lost. In a way, then, they are two sides of the same coin, for while one has no ideals and zero integrity, the other has a lot of both, but no means of recognizing them, nor executing what he does have into the ‘real world,’ where it could live and affect others. This, again, is an example of great writing and excellent character development, for neither man is a true symbol of good, bad, phoniness, or integrity. They each have a little bit of both, with Lester even being a bit more intelligent than originally shown, while “might makes right” even here, as Cliff is fired, and Halley goes off to London.
Months later, Cliff and Wendy have decided to divorce, but make one last outing to a family get-together. This is the wedding of Ben’s daughter, with the rabbi now completely blind. Cliff sees Lester with Halley, as they’d gotten together in London, and are now engaged. In a great little moment that puts the lie to Halley’s later claims re: Lester’s “sweetness,” Lester gets kissed by an acquaintance, only to casually rub it off of his face, amidst other gestures that makes this one easily missed. Ben’s daughter walks down the aisle as they are all sitting with their kippahs, ‘united’ by religion as if it’s common ground; yet the viewer knows how utterly different they all are, how variably they respond to spiritual laws, as well as things within, things without, and how such homogenization — another ‘ideal’ within the film — is simply impossible.
As Halley tells Cliff of Lester’s good qualities and hands Cliff back a love letter, Cliff is now the film’s last ‘loser,’ in the strict sense, for although we can’t be absolutely sure of his talent, we can be sure of his lacks, and that Halley, who should have really known better, sees them, too, even as she chooses to ignore Lester’s, whose outward success makes them invisible. As Cliff sits alone, Judah comes by, and asks him of his thoughts, to which Cliff responds that he’s busy plotting the perfect murder. The ‘comedy’ and ‘dramatic’ sides are thus fused, now, as Judah informs that he has a “great murder story,” replete with a “strange twist.” Judah then relates what has occurred, alongside some new information. One day, in the heat of his personal crisis, when he thought “the eyes of God” were upon him, and he was ready to confess, he woke up only to find the problem suddenly lifted; that he’d think about it less and less, could go on vacations, and, in time, not be bothered much at all. In fact, Judah says, the man “prospers,” and is better off than ever. Cliff wonders whether the man could truly go back to being normal, and Judah says yes, while Cliff insists that the man’s worst fears re: the meaninglessness of the universe are thus realized. Judah smiles, noting that it is a “chilling story,” and that the man turning himself in would be a fiction, a “Hollywood movie.” This is an absolute ‘Woody’ touch, for it shows Woody’s desire to not merely show what’s on film, but what’s in real life, too, no matter how stylized or otherwise deepened, such as in the film’s final few shots. Judah departs, and Ben dances with his daughter as music plays and colors swirl, as if he finally is in the “kingdom of God,” apart from the spectators, who can only clap at film’s end. Is Ben a fool, then, merely putting on a performance apart from the rest of the world? Or is he in fact wise, no matter if that wisdom is purely situational, whose ideals have merely been rejected, no matter how right, by people who do not share his basic assumptions?
I’d argue, in fact, that Ben is a more nuanced figure than typically thought, and can shed much light on the film as a whole. Perhaps the most easy claim to dismiss is that he is an ‘Oedipal’ figure. Oedipus, in short, gained wisdom from his blindness, yet it is much harder to make that claim for Ben. Yes, Ben has ‘perfect wisdom.’ but at the same time, is ‘perfectly wrong’ as well, for the wisdom is not really playing out in the real world. To be wise and wrong is not a contradiction, either, for the two apply to completely different aspects of human existence: the former to a world of ideals, propped by an assumption that most people share, while the latter to the truth of the assumption itself, and what ought to be done with the knowledge gained. In short, wisdom and wrongness is sort of like arguing with a ‘logical lunatic’ who has built up a beautiful, internally consistent ‘thing’ by the power of the mind, with perfectly reasoned arguments, and slow, careful thought. Yet Ben’s issue (as with a lunatic’s) is not so much the argumentation, which may be perfect, but the underlying assumption, which will force the entire thing to crumble if too closely examined.
But if Ben is not an Oedipal figure, what is he? Jonathan Rosenbaum dismissively calls Ben “the perfect all-purpose symbolic character,” yet doesn’t seem to get that, on a deeper level, Ben is almost an anti-symbol, for a symbol involves something definite, concrete, and Ben, by his very nature, is not clearly in either of the two worlds, despite his great core. In short, he is neither the all-wise ‘symbol’ others have made him out to be, nor the truly ‘blind’ figure, whom Dan Schneider calls “an almost naive total feeler.” The fact is, his wisdom is real, his advice (as is Jack’s) is sage, but merely situational, predicated, as it is, upon certain assumptions that nigh-psychopaths such as Judah do not accept. At film’s end, he merely seems to be ‘performing,’ but as Edward Howard[3] points out, is utterly content with this, for one gets the feeling that even as so much seems to crumble all around him — his eyesight, Judah’s ‘goodness,’ if it was ever there in the first place — he still has one foot in the kingdom of God, merely because his inner self allows him to be. Ben might be one of the film’s losers, but that, too, is predicated, for losers don’t truly get what they want, and can’t make the world bend so completely to their will. Ben, on the other hand, utterly forges his own existence, and gives it a structure and sensibility neither Judah nor Cliff can ever gain, even as they might at times wish to. This is the definition of winning, even as it’s restricted to something so tiny, so insular, yet projected, as it is, to far deeper dimensions, thus making it count.
Coming on the heels of Hannah and Her Sisters and Another Woman, Allen continued to meld jazz and classical in some later films, with classical, especially, allowing this film’s narrative to unfold. A few ‘light’ pieces, such as Betty Hutton’s Murder He Says and music from The Last Gangster serve to tie in the comedic and dramatic portions of the film,[4] and might even strike one as a little inappropriate, given how confrontational they sound in a film whose real drama tends to bubble subtly underneath. There is no murder, no visible violence; it is all implied, for even Judah’s own ‘resolution’ occurs off-screen. Other pieces, however, feel downright critical to the film, with subtle connections to the film’s ideas. Note how, early on, Judah corrects Dolores’s misuse of the name “Schumann,” for Judah’s preferred composer is Schubert. Schumann is “too flowery,” he claims, while Schubert is like Dolores: “the sad one.” In this vein, it is Schubert that plays as the assassin follows Dolores to her apartment, and comes in again when Judah, after hearing of her murder, decides to see for himself. Most of the effect is clear without even having to know the composer, for the music very much sounds like slipping into one’s own interior, thus capturing Judah’s strong desire ‘to see.’ Yet it is subtly ironic, as well, that just as Dolores’s clichés about “eyes” and the like are ultimately disproven, her desire to learn more of Schubert and other ‘fine’ things is hammered just as hard. In short, “the sad one” is forced to relive Judah’s words in ways that not even Judah himself can recognize.
Crimes and Misdemeanors is a great film, for it has all the right parts: a great screenplay, great, poetic images and shots, deep characters, profound conflicts, subtle acting, and a series of magnificent inversions that take genre conventions and utterly re-forge them in a way the viewer can neither expect, nor dismiss. It, like all great art, throws in a few wildcards, as well, which work at subliminal levels difficult to quantify, such as the odd but powerful connection between Jack and Ben, or the physical conflation of Judah and the killer, seemingly mesmerized by the kind of sunset Judah once saw on a beach; or forcing the viewer to empathize against Dolores, the victim, merely because she is so self-absorbed; or even the film’s structure, which adds a ‘comedic’ version of these events, only to utterly subsume one under the other in the final conversation between Judah and Cliff. Then there are Professor Levy’s comments, as a deeper counterpoint to Ben’s, providing the film’s most substantive ‘good’ ethical structure, yet superseded (at least in some minds) by Levy’s ultimate suicide. It all means more than one thing, and it is why the film can stay in one’s mind for so long, while more typical psychological thrillers do not.
[1] Schneider, Dan. “DVD Review Of Crimes And Misdemeanors.” Cosmoetica. http://www.cosmoetica.com/B926-DES719.htm 5/7/2010. Accessed 4/10/2014.
[2] Rosenbaum, Jonathan. Review of Crimes and Misdemeanors. JonathanRosenbaum.net http://www.jonathanrosenbaum.net/1989/10/crimes-and-misdemeanors/ 10/1/1989. Accessed 4/10/2014.
[3] Howard, Ed. “11/11: Crimes and Misdemeanors; Pittsburgh Trilogy; The Text of Light.” Only the Cinema. http://seul-le-cinema.blogspot.co.il/2007/11/1111-crimes-and-misdemeanors-pittsburgh.html 11/11/2007. Accessed 4/10/2014.
[4] Harvey. Pgs. 42-47.
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More from Alex Sheremet: The Many Illusions of Woody Allen’s “Manhattan” (1979), GREATNESS 101: Analyzing Woody Allen’s “Hannah and Her Sisters” (1986), INTERIORS (1978): Woody Allen’s Most Underrated Film?