(Continued)

David Fear: Wow, Morgan, you really do have it bad in the worst sort of "Burning Bed" way. (When you leave the house sporting those post-screening shiners, do you tell folks that you ran into a door? Or that Allen really, really loves you, it's just that you get him so angry?)

I have to say, I'm glad that I'm not the only one who refuses to simply dismiss the last 12 years of Woody's output altogether. Like you, I think "Deconstructing Harry" is an incredible -- and incredibly nasty -- piece of work that deserves a better reputation; even if it's not the least bit autobiographical, as the director has repeatedly stressed, it's as lacerating a portrait of an artist as a self-loathing, foul-mouthed scumbag as you're likely to find. Allen has played with his public-vs.-private persona since the late '70s, but his Harry is the dark twin of his signature lovable schlub, the creative genius as black hole. (Considering the private Woody that was being sketched out in the tabloids of the time, he seems to be exorcising some serious bitterness.) If the movie isn't about himself, then it's a hell of a Freudian slip.

And, like you, I actually have a soft spot for "Small Time Crooks," a fact that's earned me my share of slings and arrows from colleagues and fellow Allenphiles. You just need to view it as an exemplary "Honeymooners" episode, and its soufflé slightness doesn't feel so grating. Hell, I'll even give "Everyone Says I Love You" a pass. Sure, neither he nor half his cast can sing. I'm not sure that matters in the end. His aims there are modest, and those particular goals get achieved.

And yet ... it's funny you mention Fassbinder. I'd never think to compare German cinema's Genet with the Philip Roth of American movies, except both have proven (in the late, great Fassbinder's case, proved) to be highly prolific. And when I look at the careers of both, I see mediocre to god-awful entries in their filmographies that make me wish they didn't feel the need to chain-work. Fassbinder lived a life of excess across the board, so it's not surprising that his career reflected his drive toward a downward spiral. Allen, however, appeared to churn out work simply for work's sake throughout the mid-'90s and up to the present ... and frankly, it shows. There have been many times when I've walked out of the second disappointing Allen movie to come out in one year (he usually does a "spring" and a "fall" project) when I thought to myself, "Why doesn't he just concentrate his energies on one film and throw himself into making that an extraordinary picture? I know life is short, but shouldn't these artistic expressions, or even these pleasantly entertaining diversions, that make up your life's work be handled with more care?"

Look, I don't want to just blindly contribute to the blood sport of bashing the contemporary Woody, and anyone who's seen Richard Schickel's documentary "Woody Allen: A Life in Film" or read Eric Lax's recent book "Conversations With Woody Allen" knows that the man is intensely self-critical of his lesser flicks. No one -- not even you nor I, Kim -- can thoroughly dis "The Curse of the Jade Scorpion" the way that the man who made it can. But for those of us who remember the filmmaker who gave the world "Annie Hall," "Manhattan," "Interiors" (I'm a fan), "Stardust Memories," "Zelig," "Broadway Danny Rose," "The Purple Rose of Cairo," "Hannah and Her Sisters" and "Radio Days" -- all in 10 years! -- it's been a real bummer to see him turn out so many half-baked, half-hearted works in his later years. (Yes, I'm leaving out "A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy" from this Golden Age. Call it selective memory, or simply an act of mercy.) Like you said, even "Match Point" pales in comparison to its superior twin "Crimes and Misdemeanors"; I'm convinced that all those return-to-form accolades stem from the fact that so many people wanted something of even minor substance from him, and thus they were willing to give a decent film immediate entry into the pantheon. A fine burger suddenly got elevated into a filet mignon, and anyone who thinks London or Scarlett has rejuvenated his creative juices need only see "Scoop." Ditto the notion that Blighty-set drama has given him something that Gotham-based comedy couldn't: If you still believe that after suffering through the wooden line readings and DOA philosophical musings of "Cassandra's Dream," I don't know what to tell you.

Which brings us to my own refusal to let go. I haven't been able to give up on the bespectacled man for all seasons either. But my disillusionment is starting to get the better of me now. Fans stayed with him when he gave up the "early, funny ones" for works tinged with real life, for Bergman and Fellini obsessions and for being more than just a nebbish who took Bob Hope's timing and turned himself into a movie star. Now, after Allen's muse has left him high and dry for so many years, we keep waiting for the Bob Dylan turnaround, where another out-of-the-blue string of impressive works signals that greatness is not behind him simply because youth is. That hope that the next one will be the beginning of Allen 4.0 is fading, however, and, in my darkest hours, I wonder if the investment is worth it anymore. Maybe I should be happy with the trifles and stop expecting the real gems. Maybe I adore the old Woody too much. Maybe I'm forever stuck idolizing him -- no, wait, make that "romanticizing" -- all out of proportion.

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