by Woody Allen
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Product Description
“I am greatly relieved that the universe is finally explainable. I was beginning to think it was me.”–Woody Allen
Here, in his first collection since his three hilarious classics Getting Even, Without Feathers, and Side Effects, Woody Allen has managed to write a book that not only answers the most profound questions of human existence but is the perfect size to place under any short table leg to prevent wobbling.
“I awoke Friday, and because the universe is expanding it took me longer than usual to find my robe,” he explains in a piece on physics called “Strung Out.” In other flights of inspirational sanity we are introduced to a cast of characters only Allen could imagine: Jasper Nutmeat, Flanders Mealworm, and the independent film mogul E. Coli Biggs, just to name a few. Whether he is writing about art, sex, food, or crime (“Pugh has been a policeman as far back as he can remember. His father was a notorious bank robber, and the only way Pugh could get to spend time with him was to apprehend him”) he is explosively funny.
In “This Nib for Hire,” a Hollywood bigwig comes across an author’s book in a little country store and describes it in a way that aptly captures this magnificent volume: “Actually,” the producer says, “I’d never seen a book remaindered in the kindling section before.”
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Average Customer Review:
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful:
SJ Perelman is Alive and ... Well?, 2008-09-12
SJ Perelman wrote for the Marx Brothers in the 1930's and won a screenplay Oscar for "Around the World in 80 Days" in '56. But he is best remembered for his numerous articles published in the New Yorker Magazine. Perelman would spot a quirky newspaper story or magazine article and write a story or short playlet about it. Using alter egos such as JS Peebelman and JP Pringleman, Perelman would portray himself as a hapless every man frustrated by the aburdities of life. Another feature of his work was a vocabulary that could send even the most well-read scrambling for the Oxford Dictionary. In the first few stories in "Mere Anarchy", Woody Allen (remember him?) seeks to connect with his inner Perel-man borrowing SJ's style right down to the news blurbs and mind-boggling vocabulary. Interestingly, the Perelman clones are not as amusing as the later stories in "Mere Anarchy" where Allen writes with a style more reminiscient of "Getting Even" and "Without Feathers". When Allen knocks off the knock offs and sticks with his own writing style, he's funnier. As for the Master? Check out: "The Most of SJ Perelman" and "The Best of SJ Perelman".
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful:
 mere banality, 2008-09-08
One reviewer here really hit the hamnmer on the head when she said that the writing style in Mere Anarchy was very 1950's pulp fiction/detective - and in my opinion, is so much so that it actually detracts away from what could have been the promising beginnings of some interesting story lines, but too much emphasis is placed on crafty adjectives and personifiers. Much of the essence of what could actually be funny (his usual penchant for dolling out timeless idiosyncrasies of the characters, and often bizarre, slapstick plot twists) get lost in a stylistic grammatical pas de deux, leaving me to wonder if he has not lost his satirical/cynical/absurdist yet charming point of view on the human condition over a more polished yet at the same time, bland narrative style.
The only saving grace was to be found in the last three stories, which was a return to his early writing style of "Without feathers" and "Side Effects" - but sadly, it was too little too late for me to walk away with a happy memory of what might (but hopefully won't) be one of his last books of comedy.
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful:
 Embellished, but brilliant and enduringly original , 2008-03-22
OK: what would you guess Woody Allen would write about after these uneventful 25 years since his last volume of essays? You might well say matrimonial strife, court cases, movies and movie making, and a tell-tale nanny! Well, viola!
A book of humourous essays is a hard act to pull off. But Allen's done it three times before to acclaim. Being highly individual, if not unique, as a humourist, the real question here is how does this collection compare with his previous volumes?
Well, he's done it again. This could be no one else. It's brilliantly inventive and brilliantly written. It's tightly written, too. He is as distinctive a voice as there is. Yet there are qualifications.
Mere Anarchy does not have quite the range of styles and voices as in previous volumes. There is not the winning third person style of the Count Dracula story in Getting Even, for example.
Woody has been doing some reading and a number of quite rare and abstract words repeat themselves. Allen's use of language is stunning: he dazzles, but sometimes bemuses, too.
Humour based on absurdity must be followed to be appreciated properly. The density of the vernacular in some stories borders, occasionally, on the impenetrable. It's an enjoyable ride even then.
The vernacular is a New York Jewish patter that reads as it might be delivered: staccato. It's prevalent in the earlier stories, which suggests one could read the collection backwards. I read it twice and found it easier that way.
Most people who will read this will be Woody fans. We will forgive him more or less any inflexion, based on more or less unconditional love. Casual admirers have probably dwindled. If you are one, don't let this quibble put you off. It's a collection that showers you with so many sparks its good to re-read and absorb some of the fireworks that were disguised the first time.
Here are some highlights in reverse order.
Pinchuck's Law. "There was only one health food store that sold really deadly mushrooms, but it stopped years ago when it turned out they weren't organically grown." Magnificent work but it stops too soon!
Surprise Rocks Disney Trial. Mickey Mouse gives testimony. This has the lovely image of Warren Beatty taking Petunia Pig to the Cannes Film Festival. Amusing and sweet.
Thus Ate Zarathustra. The lost diet book of Friedrich Nietzsche. "..the circumference of any man is equal to his girth multiplied by pi.". Reminiscent of some of Woody's earlier work as are the two above; amusing but it doesn't quite strike jackpot.
Above the Law, Below the Box Springs. "It wasn't long before Stubbs and Doxy Nash began having a secret affair, although she soon found out about it." A charming silly small town tale of consumer rights.
Strung Out. "What I do know about physics is that to a man standing on the shore, time passes quicker than to a man on a boat - especially if the man on the boat is with his wife." A funny essay with several styles mixed together and mastery of pace and delivery. Allen at his best.
Attention Geniuses: Cash Only. A songwriter who pays his psychoanalysis bills in kind. This is a good tale hampered by obscurity - for the non-Jewish reader anyway.
On a Bad Day You Can See Forever. One of several references to financial ruin ("..the wallet in my breast pocket began to flutter like a hooked flounder") about a disastrous renovation. Stifled by over-clever or over-Jewish or NY references, but with laugh-out loud lines, too.
Sing, You Sacher Tortes. There is no denying the exceptional inventiveness of the Allen brain, but it is matched by the New York lingo of the first two paragraphs. And punctuated by gems. ("How does Mahler triumph over his fear of death? I asked." "By dying. I figured it out - it's really the only way.") A tale of a musical about infidelity and philosophers.
The Rejection. A swipe at snobbery among investment bankers.
Caution, Falling Moguls. A funny story neatly delivered about a movie mogul "two years over schedule on an eight week shoot".
Glory Hallelujah, Sold! Another neat idea and again, beautifully delivered and concluded. Allen's endings are central to the success of his tales. This one is about litigious clients buying bespoke prayers. ("Read the tiny letters on your prayer confirmation contract. Spells out our liability and His.")
How Deadly Your Taste Buds, My Sweet. A superbly fluent and absurd private eye story on the trail of the Mandalay Truffle.
Nanny Dearest. A wry yarn on a couple whose nanny is writing a book about their private lives, with a twist ending.
Calisthenics, Poison Ivy, Final Cut. An exchange of letters about the cut from a movie by a boy after film camp ... a belter, disguising a myriad of wonderful insults.
This Nib for Hire. Flanders Mealworm is seduced to prostitute his literary gift for B movie cash. Dosed with NY vernacular, unfortunately some sentences swallow like unshelled eggs.
Sam, You Made the Pants too Fragrant. Set in Savile Row with suits of the future (inspired by the NY Times) they still speak like Jewish New Yorkers. Beautifully written for all that and a deliciously visual idea, as are many of these pieces. You can sense mini screenplays.
Tandoori Ransom. This is a over embellished again but is an enjoyable story about the kidnap of an actor's body double.
To Err is Human, to Float, Divine. Smeared with the lingo but this story of levitation and dematerialisation benefits, as it really is a very amusing sidewalk tale of hocus pocus.
It's an excellent collection and benefits from a second read when the strong NY `dialect' grates less and one can appreciate Woody's enduring distinctiveness and originality. It sits well with his other volumes and tells us his faculties and ambitions as a writer remain close to top gear. He's 72 now. Let's hope it doesn't take him another 25 years before the next volume...
0 of 0 people found the following review helpful:
Embellished, but still brilliant and enduringly original, 2008-03-22
OK: what would you guess Woody Allen would write about after these uneventful 25 years since his last volume of essays? You might well say matrimonial strife, court cases, movies and movie making, and a tell-tale nanny! Well, viola!
A book of humourous essays is a hard act to pull off. But Allen's done it three times before to acclaim. Being highly individual, if not unique, as a humourist, the real question here is how does this collection compare with his previous volumes?
Well, he's done it again. This could be no one else. It's brilliantly inventive and brilliantly written. It's tightly written, too. He is as distinctive a voice as there is. Yet there are qualifications.
Mere Anarchy does not have quite the range of styles and voices as in previous volumes. There is not the winning third person style of the Count Dracula story in Getting Even, for example.
Woody has been doing some reading and a number of quite rare and abstract words repeat themselves. Allen's use of language is stunning: he dazzles, but sometimes bemuses, too.
Humour based on absurdity must be followed to be appreciated properly. The density of the vernacular in some stories borders, occasionally, on the impenetrable. It's an enjoyable ride even then.
The vernacular is a New York Jewish patter that reads as it might be delivered: staccato. It's prevalent in the earlier stories, which suggests one could read the collection backwards. I read it twice and found it easier that way.
Most people who will read this will be Woody fans. We will forgive him more or less any inflexion, based on more or less unconditional love. Casual admirers have probably dwindled. If you are one, don't let this quibble put you off. It's a collection that showers you with so many sparks its good to re-read and absorb some of the fireworks that were disguised the first time.
Here are some highlights in reverse order.
Pinchuck's Law. "There was only one health food store that sold really deadly mushrooms, but it stopped years ago when it turned out they weren't organically grown." Magnificent work but it stops too soon!
Surprise Rocks Disney Trial. Mickey Mouse gives testimony. This has the lovely image of Warren Beatty taking Petunia Pig to the Cannes Film Festival. Amusing and sweet.
Thus Ate Zarathustra. The lost diet book of Friedrich Nietzsche. "..the circumference of any man is equal to his girth multiplied by pi.". Reminiscent of some of Woody's earlier work as are the two above; amusing but it doesn't quite strike jackpot.
Above the Law, Below the Box Springs. "It wasn't long before Stubbs and Doxy Nash began having a secret affair, although she soon found out about it." A charming silly small town tale of consumer rights.
Strung Out. "What I do know about physics is that to a man standing on the shore, time passes quicker than to a man on a boat - especially if the man on the boat is with his wife." A funny essay with several styles mixed together and mastery of pace and delivery. Allen at his best.
Attention Geniuses: Cash Only. A songwriter who pays his psychoanalysis bills in kind. This is a good tale hampered by obscurity - for the non-Jewish reader anyway.
On a Bad Day You Can See Forever. One of several references to financial ruin ("..the wallet in my breast pocket began to flutter like a hooked flounder") about a disastrous renovation. Stifled by over-clever or over-Jewish or NY references, but with laugh-out loud lines, too.
Sing, You Sacher Tortes. There is no denying the exceptional inventiveness of the Allen brain, but it is matched by the New York lingo of the first two paragraphs. And punctuated by gems. ("How does Mahler triumph over his fear of death? I asked." "By dying. I figured it out - it's really the only way.") A tale of a musical about infidelity and philosophers.
The Rejection. A swipe at snobbery among investment bankers.
Caution, Falling Moguls. A funny story neatly delivered about a movie mogul "two years over schedule on an eight week shoot".
Glory Hallelujah, Sold! Another neat idea and again, beautifully delivered and concluded. Allen's endings are central to the success of his tales. This one is about litigious clients buying bespoke prayers. ("Read the tiny letters on your prayer confirmation contract. Spells out our liability and His.")
How Deadly Your Taste Buds, My Sweet. A superbly fluent and absurd private eye story on the trail of the Mandalay Truffle.
Nanny Dearest. A wry yarn on a couple whose nanny is writing a book about their private lives, with a twist ending.
Calisthenics, Poison Ivy, Final Cut. An exchange of letters about the cut from a movie by a boy after film camp ... a belter, disguising a myriad of wonderful insults.
This Nib for Hire. Flanders Mealworm is seduced to prostitute his literary gift for B movie cash. Dosed with NY vernacular, unfortunately some sentences swallow like unshelled eggs.
Sam, You Made the Pants too Fragrant. Set in Savile Row with suits of the future (inspired by the NY Times) they still speak like Jewish New Yorkers. Beautifully written for all that and a deliciously visual idea, as are many of these pieces. You can sense mini screenplays.
Tandoori Ransom. This is a over embellished again but is an enjoyable story about the kidnap of an actor's body double.
To Err is Human, to Float, Divine. Smeared with the lingo but this story of levitation and dematerialisation benefits, as it really is a very amusing sidewalk tale of hocus pocus.
It's an excellent collection and benefits from a second read when the strong NY `dialect' grates less and one can appreciate Woody's enduring distinctiveness and originality. It sits well with his other volumes and tells us his faculties and ambitions as a writer remain close to top gear. He's 72 now. Let's hope it doesn't take him another 25 years before the next volume...
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful:
 The worst Woody Allen ever, 2008-01-25
Wow. This book was virtually unreadable. What a major disappointment after years of genius writing. Some vintage good ideas...but by far his worst writing ever.
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