Sweet and Lowdown

This is a very enjoyable movie. It has many touches in it that are classic Woody Allen, so it should appeal to his many fans. It is also so strong on the jazz material that it should appeal to jazz afficianados even if they are not Woody Allen fans.

The biographical / documentary styles keep this movie away from Woody's worst excesses (I am a fan, but not a blinkered one)and provide momentum. There are one or two scenes that migrate towards farce, such as the hold-up scene(s) and the "moon seat".

This film is well worth seeing.

In my opinion, there is more than one type of Woody Allen film. There is the antic lunacy of films like Bananas and Sleeper, the serio-comic "serious" film with "meaning", like Annie Hall, Husbands and Wives and Deconstructing Harry and then there are what I think are Woody Allen's "love notes", if you'll bear with the expression, films like The Purple Rose of Cairo, Bullets Over Broadway and Sweet and Lowdown, films as a general rule that are period pieces (generally the '30's or thereabouts) that are basically mash notes from Allen to something Allen particularly cares about, such as jazz in Sweet and Lowdown (specifically jazz guitar and Django Reinhardt). The score is great, which is typical for a Woody Allen film. Allen does these little films vey well and they are almost always worth watching. Sean Penn plays a self-centered, egotistical creep with talent. I will leave any further interpretations regarding the preceding statement to the Gentle Reader. Why he was nominated for an Oscar escapes me. Samantha Morton, on the other hand, gives a sweet, if almost one-note, performance, which basically sums up the movie: worth the time and effort to watch, but a one-note film. If you like this side of Woody (and I do), this is worth seeing.

This is a slight but delightful work. The story is a (fictional) biography of one Emmet Ray, a cad with a passion for watching trains and shooting rats in junk yards and who just happens to be a virtuosic guitarist. Emmet does not lack for talent and ego, but his drinking, philandering, and small-time philanthropizing keep him from capitalizing on his genius. He is obsessed with Django Reinhardt as being perhaps the only guitarist who might be better - Ray has fainted both times he was in the presence of Reinhardt. The story is told as if it were a documentary of a real person with talking heads interspersed with dramatizations. It could be taken as a satire on that style of presentation since the critics being interviewed come across with just a touch of fake sincerity.

The enjoyment comes from the atmospheric and detailed re-creation of the 1930s. The nightclub scenes are a particular highlight. In fact a whole movie of just those kinds of scenes with 1930s jazz bands and singers might have been an improvement to this movie, since that is where this movie really shines.

The filming uses over-saturated colors to good effect, creating a cozy and warm feeling. There is humor, but it is gentle, particularly for Woody Allen.

As usual Allen has assembled a cast of attractive women. Samantha Morton, who plays a mute who turns out to be Ray's true love interest (a fact he realizes too late) is a joy to watch. Her performance recalls the sweet silent movie stars. Sean Penn does well with his playing Ray as somewhat of a train wreck of a man who frustrates all those he encounters, but who never-the-less has endearing qualities. He is transported into another dimension when he plays his guitar and he takes his audiences with him.

A slow, rich movie. Though it lags in places, the three lead performances are indelibly written in my memory. And the great jazz soundtrack and warm colors made this movie go down like a glass of bourbon.

Embodying the archetypal difficult genius, Emmet Ray is an almost cartoonishly dislikable guy. But Sean Penn keeps him just this side of sympathetic; we loathe his actions, we curse his self-destructiveness, and yet we're compelled to keep watching in the increasingly futile hope he'll turn himself around. His last scenes are heartrending.

As Hattie, Samantha Morton strikes a perfect, almost Chaplinesque, balance of comedy and tragedy. The line separating the two is razor-thin; she dances gracefully upon it. I could say more, but perhaps appropriately, it's difficult to find words that capture the beauty of her silent performance. Half the joy is in watching her reactions naturally unfold anyway.

Like Penn, Uma Thurman portrays a pretty unlikeable character. Her Blanche is overly intellectual, questions incessantly and is in some ways just as emotionally alienated as Emmett. Though her character is grating at first (particularly in contrast to Morton), Thurman does not shrink from the less flattering aspects of her character. It's a brave performance in a thankless role.

Woody Allen has constructed a thoughtful meditation on the nature of artistry. Not on celebrity -- we all know how that film turned out -- but on the rights and responsibilities of the true artist. Emmett, Hattie and Blanche represent the axis of artists, fans and critics respectively. As their relationships play out -- naturally, inexorably and poignantly -- the viewer gets a rare treat: a film that plucks at the mind and at the heart as gracefully as Emmett picking his guitar strings.

When we try to understand genius, or love, or "why?", we run into the same problem that the ancients encountered:

"I went to the poets … I took them some of the most elaborate passages in their own writings, and asked what was the meaning of them — thinking that they would teach me something. I must say that there is hardly a person present who would not have talked better about their poetry than they did themselves. That showed me in an instant that not by wisdom do poets write poetry, but by a sort of genius and inspiration; they are like diviners or soothsayers who also say many fine things, but do not understand the meaning of them." — Socrates, The Apology

So here we have Woody telling a story about a storyteller, who talks and struts endlessly (Penn has a ball with this), but can only say anything through music, and he can't explain a bit of it. Much like Woody, who prattles on about every neurosis, but speaks volumes through his control of the medium. It's just something he's born to do.

And this is the only way to understand Django -- with only two working fingers on his fretting hand (accidental disfigurement), he reinvented the whole medium of guitar. The new shape of his hand forced him into holding octaves - which can be done on guitar with two adjacent fingers, unlike on the piano - and changing the way leads and comping - here, self-accompaniment - were played. His art was the necessary step before Les Paul, and thence to Wes Montgomery, and so on to you and me.

Here is devotion without hagiography, because all of this is wrapped into "one of those Emmett Ray stories", where you can 'never be sure' of what is truth, confabulation, or exaggeration.

Brilliance. Bravo, to all.