sisting on his conservative instincts andnunderwriting, in broad strokes, everynliberal sentiment, Mr. Wills can restnScreennLet’s Get RomancenManhattan; Directed by Woody Allen;nWritten by Woody Allen andnMarshall Brickman; United Artists.nSame Time, Next Year; Directed bynRobert Mulligan; Written by BernardnSlade; Universal.nby Eric ShapearonSuddenly, there’s an outcry amongnthe hacks who daily squeeze their mindsnfor a drop of opinion. After more thanna decade of measuring art by the secrentions oozing from screens brimmingnwith the flaccid buttocks and bosomsnof so-called stars, the clamor is for romance.nWho gave the order and why isnunclear, but the horde of prefabricatednarbiters, those who dream about gettingnroom for their names on theatrenmarquees, forthwith yell for romance.nNo one specifies the word, but bonusesnand first-nights-cum-caviar are at staken—certainly more serious things thanncritical inquiry and decorum.nBut how do we retrieve romance?nWe all know one can’t have it, a lanGarbo and Gilbert, or even My FunnynValentine, without a bit of mendacity.nBeauty is not necessarily truth, althoughnit is not necessarily a lie. The cinematicnwarmth of the ’20s and the schmaltz ofnthe ’50s were always framed by convention,nas if contained in a casserole whichnprevented them from evaporating, ornfrom smearing all over. Both warmthnand schmaltz preconditioned the palatabilitynof the dish. The ’60s went afternthe unvarnished and preordained truthnaccording to shallow and flashy ideologicalngospels. The result was culturalnvulgarization on a scale unknown be­nassured that his presence will be dulynnoticed as much as an authentic conservativenstatement is ignored. Dnfore. During the ’70s even worse thingsnhappened. Ezra Pound perceived thenend of Western civilization in “. . . thenloss of all distinction between publicnand private affairs.” We are dismallynclose to it. The universal nausea andnindividual malaise are slowly expandingneverywhere. And now the critics, whonbear the chief responsibility for thisnsituation, are grumbling that unvarnishedntruth is unglamorous, and demandnthat romance be woven fromnDeep Throat’s aesthetics and etiquette.nThus, once again, everything boilsndown to existential attitudes and formsnof morality—and with respect to that,nManhattan is a boring movie about unsavory,nrather insipid, if not quite repulsivenpeople. Why a homely, to say thenleast, and certainly uncharming evennif, on occasion, pathetically affable NewnYorker has it so easy with women cannbe best explained by their stunted exigenciesnand devalued sense ofnthemselves.nIn fact, with the exception of a 17year-oldngirl, the protagonist’s love partnersnare meretricious, not too wellscrubbednand pompously obnoxious.nAnd dull. Feelings among this set arenarticulated through twaddle and do notntranslate into acts. This leaves us constantlynuncertain about what is meantnas compassion and what is intended tonbe satire. The filter of moral reasoningnis never activated by narration or events:nwe are supposed to suppose that it isnsomewhere in the meager plot—butnwhere.” This is an author’s movie, whichnmeans, in hip critical parlance, that thentextures and significance of the conceivednreality come to us exclusivelynthrough the author’s brokerage—neithernnnthe characters nor the situations maynhave a life of their own. And the authornspeaks about Gotham’s jeunesse (quitenadvanced) doree with apathy: the NewnClass of his vision performs the ritesnof privilege and good life in the voidnbetween Elaine’s and Bloomingdale’s.nThe author refuses even to try to judgenanybody or anything; it’s his good rightnand it’s nothing new in drama. However,nhe continuously informs us aboutnhis sensitivity and brittleness. It’s notnexactly a Stendhalian quandary, andnthere’s plenty of toying with the ideanthat his adolescent lover may help: hisnvulnerability interacts with some messagesnshe emits, she offers him psychotherapynthrough authenticity of emotionsnand loyalties which are absentnfrom his world of intellectual zombies.nFor some reason, her somewhat cynicalnpuberty is refreshing and reliable amongnpeople who earn big money for cultivatingntorpor and platitudes and writingnbooks and film scripts about them. Theynknow that it is so, Allen himself refersnto them (or himself?) as the “academynof the overrated.” However, in real life,nhe accepts the lionizing without a shrednof self-criticism.nManhattan’s characters have plentynof money and boundless freedom, twqnaccessories which other people in othernplaces fight for. Their emotional practicenis psychoanalysis, the result ofnwhich is that the only person who seemsnmature is a 17-year-old—too young fornthis use of the couch. They never attemptnto puncture the all-surroundingnidiocy, they discuss it; it turns themninto clowns who elaborate on pratfalls.nBehavioral trash is far from sinfulness,nthus words like humanness, judgmentnand forgiveness are out of sync with thisnmovie. But after all, Beatrice was thensame age, while Juliet was 14, and bothnDante and Romeo expected somethingnmore than maturity from them. Thencritics, almost all of whom praised itnto the skies, see in Manhattan existentialnchoices. But the movie is about discomforts.nIts heroes and heroines neednneither insight nor empathy, onlynSeptember/October 1979n