of the Woody Allen that you don’t payn13.75 to see or $8.95 to read sound justnas brisk as the celluloid and printed ones.nWhen the Academy Awards are presented,nthe nominees are typically there,nbreathlessly awaiting the announcement,nor else they are on-location innsome godforsaken spot filming stillnanother Hollywood masterpiece. Regrets,nnaturally, are extended to thenAcademy. (This scenario depicts onlynthe overtly nonpolitical types, the onesnwho don’t send an Indian maiden or thenlike up on stage to make a speech.) Butnwhen Annie Hall cleaned up Oscars thenway a vacuum cleaner in a departmentstorendemonstration picks up lint.nWoody wasn’t to be found within 2000nmiles of the ceremony, and he wasn’tnworking on a film. Instead, there he was,nplaying a clarinet in a New York bar. Nonarrogance was implied by his lack of attendance.nThere was just the typical,nWoodyesque shrug: Mr. Average doesn’tnwin little gold statues.nFailure is his raison d’etre. Few succeednas well as Woody fails. But we mustnbelieve the first statement and ignore thensecond for Woody to pull off what hendoes so well. Woody the character isnWoody the man. Life isn’t imitating artnor vice versa. Woody just zlf—althoughnhe would probably take issue with thenverb tense.nWoody’s Side Effects is no exceptionnto this approach. That is, I find it impossiblento read any of the pieces in thenbook without thinking about Woodyneither acting out the parts or reciting thenpieces as a monologue. The artist isn’tnremote, indifferent, far above, paring hisnfingernails. No, he’s right there, bitingnthem to the quick, hoping the stories willnwork. And they usually do, thanks, innpart, to the portrait of the artist as anhorn-rimmed kibitzer that we can’t helpnbut feel sorry for and identify with.nThere’s no question about it, WoodynAllen is a very talented man. To keepnthat from coming across he bathes himselfnin self-irony as liberally as membersnof the 18th-century French court appliedneau de cologne to their seldom-washednbodies—there’s something under all ofnthe pleasantness that isn’t quite as sweetnand freshly fragrant. The Woody who isnthe darling of the beau monde, thenWoody of fiction and film who is fated tonfail, is not the Woody of real life, not thenone who writes the words and directs thencameras, although they appear to be onenand the same. If the latter falls, it’snreally only a stumble, and one that’snprobably planned, at that.nJoseph Addison once wrote an operancalled Rosamond. It is largely forgotten—mercifullynso. A song in the operansung by a king best characterizesnWoody’s approach to life as portrayed innSide Effects, his films and perhaps evennhis clarinet playing:nOh, the pleasing, pleasing anguish,nWhen we love, and when we languish!nWishes rising!nThoughts surprising!nPleasure courting!nCharms transporting!nFanqr viewingnJoys ensuing!nOh, the pleasing, pleasing anguish!nThe scene fades as a slight man innhorn-rimmed glasses skips all the way tonthe bank.nvJne of the best ways to dissemble anqualitative assessment of someone ornsomething is to let loose with effusivenpraise. Conviction + volume = spuriousnauthority. The louder the noise, the lessnlikely is someone to call the reason fornthe praise to the bar, and the more likelynthat people will join the chorus. It’s likenyawning in a crowd: soon everyone isndoing it. Culturally and socially, thenchain-reaction phenomena quicklynreaches critical mass, particularly whennthe object of the praise is a darling ofnthose who can generate the most noise.nCritical mass leads to overkill. An example:ndesigner jeans.nConsider the Beatles. The group’snnnsuccess grew exponentially. Some of itnwas deserved. Some of it. Most criticsnwere soon lost below the clamor creatednby the fans of the Fab Four and particularlynby those whose jobs were to makensure that the shrieks, wails, faintings,nsobbing, cheers, applause, ticket sales,nrecord sales and all the rest that we knownare to accompany music continued. Anyonenwho had anything nasty to say aboutnthe group, its music or the individualsnwho were the Beatles was dismissed bynthe bellowing organs (audio and visual)nas suffering from some psychological ornphysiological aberration. Before thengroup split up (an event caused becausenthe group that sang “All You Need IsnLove” decided that another song, notnoften mentioned in Rolling Stone,n”Money,” a paean to the once-filthynlucre, proved more accurate in terms ofnreal life), I suspected that it could havenreleased an album of gutteral soundsnthat would have been hailed as a commercialnand critical success. Thisnthought was, in a sense, realized in thenlate John Lennon’s Double Fantasy album.n(Yes, it is John Lennon and YokonOno, but her addition is a function ofnmarriage: how many Ono solo albumsnwould sell.”) Only the most extreme orndeaf Beatle fan can find anything to admirenon the album, yet it is selling likenMcDonald hamburgers. Although Lennon’sndeath has something to do withnsales (i.e. people think that they arengetting a collector’s item or a saint’snrelic), it must not be overlooked thatnthe album was widely and loudly hailednwhen it appeared. Is it possible thatnliterally millions of people actually enjoynthe music.” No. But Lennon is angenius—now everyone says so—ergo,nthe album must be owned, never mindnthe music.nMoney is not the only thing that’s inflated.nOther facets of culture are flawednas well. Consider film: how many newnGables and Bogarts have you heardnhailed during the past year.” How manynold films do you prefer watching to thennew? Ingenues rival the Divine Sarah inna twinkling. With the release of eachnMay/Jttne 1981n