Woody Allen

I’m supposed to love Woody Allen.  His films are ground-breaking, witty, exploratory...and, he’s Jew that’s made his success from being Jewish.  Perhaps, we should ignore the illegitimacy and taboo of his split from Mia Farrow and union with Farrow’s -not Allen’s- adopted daughter Soon-Yi Previn, just like we should ignore Roman Polanski’s questionable sexual behavior with a minor.  Perhaps, I judge.  I liked The Pianist, Mr. Polanski.

Nevertheless, I hate Woody Allen.

I regularly leave his films, saying, “That was pretty good...I think.”  Usually, I find myself wanting more from his plot or something more dynamic.  I want his characters to be less annoying -not much less, just a little less.  I want his productions to meet my expectations...this never happens.

To that, many will say, “Oh, but you just don’t get it.”  For the record, my wife considers me a closeted hipster.  I like small-production quirky films -hell, I call them “films” rather than “movies.”  I have an ironic taste for poorly-sung alternative music.  I like Wes Anderson.  No mustache, though...well, a full-beard.  Does that count?  So, if what they say about hipsters is true, I get a whole lot of what others don't.  

But, I don't get Woody Allen.  

I've tried multiple times, often laughing when others do, so as to participate with the in-crowd.  I tried to get inside the minds of his morally-questionable protagonists.  After seeing What’s New, Pussycat?, I tried to feel what it felt like for women to casually fall in love with me -very unsuccessfully.  I tried to shift out of focus after seeing Deconstructing Harry.  I tried to enjoy the Twenties when I saw Midnight in Paris.  I couldn't get past Sean Penn's mustache in Sweet and Lowdown. 
 

"But, what about Annie Hall or Crimes and Misdemeanors or Mighty Aphrodite?"
 

My answer is, "I don't know," and I feel left out.  Am I not cultured enough?  Not intellectual enough?  Should I shave my beard into a mustache?  I want to be part of this, Mr. Allen.  Why must you be so exclusive?  I am missing something.  I need to defocus myself again.  Or enhance my neurotic tendencies.  Or have an affair.  Or learn how to dance the Charleston.

Don’t worry, Mr. Allen, I’ll figure out all your references and innuendos.  I’ve got Wikipedia.

Defining the Jewish Guilt-Shame Complex

My friends, the situation is farkakt!

Indeed, I say farkakt!

I say "farkakt" because I fall victim -in fact, prey- to the Guilt-Shame complex characteristic of my Jewish lineage. Yes, the Jewish Guilt Shame Complex! No Guilt-Shame complex torments the psyche quite like that of the Jewish persuasion.

I am still ashamed of bailing out on my eighth-grade chorus teacher, Ms. Nedzelski, when at quite the last minute and due to my pre-teen insecurities, I informed her I would not be singing the vocal solo on her arrangement of John Lennon's "Imagine." I am guilty of this lapse in integrity! I am ashamed of my guilt! Guilty of my shame! It was more than twenty years ago, yet I cannot rid myself of this burden! Ms. Nedzelski, forgive me!

If you are even just one-eighth Jewish, beware! If shame does not yet accompany your guilt, don't worry; it will. If guilt does not accompany your shame, don't worry; it will...

And, yes, my friends, I hyphenate: Guilt-hyphen-Shame.  I hyphenate because in a Jew, even a measly half-Jew such as myself, there is no guilt without shame, nor shame without guilt.  In some cases, the hyphen should be increased in font so as to stress the inseparability of these two forces: Guilt-BIG-HYPHEN-Shame.

I thus endeavor to dissect the Jewish Guilt-Shame Complex in the hopes that some of you may avoid this most unfortunate and unnecessary set of debilitating circumstances. Let me stress that no thoughts are thought, no food consumed, no sleep slept, and no bowels moved as both Guilt and Shame compulsions seize the body and mind indefinitely.

I still flush red when remembering how I -and my twenty-four other six-grade science classmates- mocked the ink blotch on Ms. Charboneau's cheek, the stray mark of which she was unaware. What of the time when I didn't invite my family to my older daughter's baptism because I thought I'd be saving them the trouble of traveling nine hours to Maine? Or the fact that I'm raising my daughters as Epsicopalians? Are they not only a quarter Jewish? Why such distress over something so seemingly logical?

I'll tell you why: Jewish Guilt-Shame!

How dare I complain or whine, EVER! Because I enjoy, because I laugh, because I bathe in the waters of happiness, health, and the hilarity of my peculiar eccentricities, I am guilty and thus compelled to shame for my good fortune, guilt that I enjoy and others do not, self-loathing of my entire existence. How dare I?

I repeat it: farkakt!


CLICK HERE FOR SYMPTOMS OF THE JEWISH GUILT-SHAME COMPLEX!

Note: This picture aboves are not products of my creativity. Rather, they was found via the Google Images search engine at stophittingyourbrother.wordpress.com and http://collider.com/uploads/imageGallery/Woody_Allen/woody_allen_image__4_.jpg.  Why do I state this, you ask? Reasons have been provided above, although it may be due more to my own neuroses. Articles on that are yet to come.