By Riley Draper

The first time I watched Annie Hall I turned off the television faster than Alvy Singer could say, “Did Jew?” It baffled me how audiences could bare this rambling philosophical chowderhead. A failed relationship later, pared with a cheap bottle of Pinot, and another screening it dawned why I was repulsed by Alvy: He represented so many of the things I saw in myself and had tried to overlook. I was that guy complaining all the time. I lost that girl. Yet unlike my own experiences with Woody Allen’s work, the artist himself has never liked his movies. In fact in 1979, upon the release of his film Manhattan, he bribed United Artists with pro bono work not to show it. Decades later, at seventy eight the renowned filmmaker was just as much a recluse as he ever was in life and in his movies. The only way to catch a glimpse of him now was to hold a press junket or let him play jazz. He prefered the latter. It was this preference for music and this dissatisfaction for his own work that led Mr. Allen to The Carlyle Hotel and after much deliberation I decided to go see him.

I spoke with a concierge over the phone and she told me the concert was sold out but that there was limited seating at the bar on a first come first serve basis. If I were to show up by five I’d be in the clear. I entered the hotel lobby through the revolving doors and sat down on the velvet staircase. “Mick Jagger walks up these stairs”, I thought to myself, “maybe if I sit here long enough he’ll walk by and ask me to move.” The line wasn’t long but it was long enough to know I wasn’t going to get a seat but I waited anyways. A few hours passed and Doorman walked into the lobby before announcing, “The cafe bar sits ten people. The first ten, you know who you are. The rest of ya try coming back next time.” Everyone got up, wrapped themselves in their peacoats and waddled through the revolving doors out onto 78th Avenue. On my way out I turned to Doorman. Reaching for good graces I reminded him that I had traveled to New York City to be there tonight. He told me to come on back in a few hours, that he might be able to get me a spot in the back if someone left early and while it wasn’t hopeful it was all I had.

Meanwhile I wandered aimlessly through Central Park smoking the only cigarette I had left like it was my first. I watched the widows from the surrounding buildings flicker through the tree branches, on and off, their flashing t.v. screens sent an electric pulse into the city. I thought about the scene in Manhattan when Isaac and Tracey are riding in the carriage through the park and how great that was and how that single moment in that single movie moved me in a very profound way. I made my way back to the hotel where Doorman ushered me through the audience to the back of the room. Amidst the noise and clutter I turned and there he was playing his bass clarinet into a crowd of anxious geriatrics, each one, dying quite literally to catch a glimpse of the star before he’d burn out in some cinematic supernova.

The concert ended and Woody began to pack up his belongings. He was timid, fearful even, as the elderly approached him and while their tender hands were absent of cameras with flashing light bulbs they were talkers till the end, full of questions and praise. From his movies his audience was endless but here in this small cafe he could fit them all into a single room and this terrified him. Painfully aware of this Woody put on his cashmere sweater and made his way for the exit. With each hurried step he seemed to come nearer to me almost as though he had something to say – some token of wisdom to bestow upon me. Filled with liquid courage I put my hand on his shoulder. Woody turned to me, “Great show, Woody.” It was all I could muster. “Hey, you too,” he responded. And I just like that, he walked through the exit door and he was gone.

I thought about chasing him down and telling him about my screenplay as he screamed for security beneath his dark rimmed glasses but just as I got up to leave the bartender waved me down from across the room. Apparently spending a hundred bucks on vodka Red Bulls was enough to warrant my being there. He motioned me to order another one. I did. I took my drink and approached the band. I even got on stage. It wasn’t awkward, I promise. It was cool. I was cool. The drinks were setting in. Woody’s seat was empty. I thought about sitting in it. Who knows maybe I’d have an epiphany. I talked with Eddy Davis and the band for a while, just average musicians that found themselves playing music with one of the greatest filmmakers of all time. They signed my subway map and I left the cafe. I was in a strange mood that evening. I took the subway up to Amsterdam Avenue and had a drink at the Lion’s Head Tavern. I thought about my evening, about Woody, and what he was doing right now. I imagined he was well into his bedtime routine now, dimming the bedroom lights and turning on the t.v. to tune out and catch the playoffs.