In every classroom, there is a genius, and chances are, that genius will be big on brains but low on social skills. You may dislike them greatly for their seemingly thesaurused vocabulary and cool diction, but they would never know it. They're caught up in themselves, more keen to boast their brightness when they should be showing their warmth. Marion Post (Gena Rowlands) is that kind of girl, except she's grown gracefully into middle-age, has been married for years, and has a job as a university administrator that satisfies her intellectual needs. She's content.
Currently, she's writing a novel. Her apartment, however, is distracting, sometimes too noisy when she needs to be alone with her thoughts. She rents a small flat that fits her needs perfectly – or so it seems. After only a few minutes into her preparation, she discovers that a psychiatrist's office is next door, as she can hear every conversation through a noisy air vent in the middle of the living room.
At first, she places pillows over the accidental speaker. But after accidentally overhearing a hysterical patient (Mia Farrow), Marion becomes fascinated. The exchange between the psychiatrist and his patient is interesting to say the least, but Marion finds it precariously relevant in her own life. As she begins eavesdropping on a regular basis, she finds herself reexamining every detail of her existence. It seems that her marriage, friendships, and familial ties are not as ideal as they seem.
Woody Allen tries to plunge into the psychological depths of Bergman with Another Woman, but the film is frequently overwrought in its intellect, pretentious even. Allen has tried drama several times, more often than not with success. 1978's Interiors was stirring in its melancholy catharsis, and future endeavors, such as 2005's Match Point and 2014's Blue Jasmine, explored new territory with the same if not more accomplishment.
Another Woman feels more like an experiment that could have been left as a novel or a short story. At only 81 minutes, it's somewhat abrupt. The ending lets us know that Marion is planning to change her life for the better, but how? Throughout the film, we see her cold shouldering nearly everyone on a regular basis – is she suddenly going to heat up her shoulder and hope for the best?
It's a stupid question I pose, I know, but I think the real problem with the film is how controlled it feels. There is no danger. There is no looseness. It wants to be stark in its atmosphere, and it is, but if it's going to hold back emotional texture, there should be something to fill in for that gaping hole. Another Woman is like an exercise, not a film. It isn't bad in the traditional sense, but in comparison to Allen's other movies, it's a filler, a transition, if you will.
There is plenty for the actors to do: Rowlands, who spent most of the '70s and '80s in her husband's (John Cassavetes) films, ties up her untamed hair and colorful wardrobe for a tight up-do and a bland turtleneck, giving one of her most affecting and impressive performances in the process. Hackman's longing desire is pungent, and Farrow is a force of gloominess in her few scenes. But even though Another Woman is well made and, at times, poignant, it doesn't have enough meat to make it any less than a forgettable exploration for one of cinema's greatest directors.
Currently, she's writing a novel. Her apartment, however, is distracting, sometimes too noisy when she needs to be alone with her thoughts. She rents a small flat that fits her needs perfectly – or so it seems. After only a few minutes into her preparation, she discovers that a psychiatrist's office is next door, as she can hear every conversation through a noisy air vent in the middle of the living room.
At first, she places pillows over the accidental speaker. But after accidentally overhearing a hysterical patient (Mia Farrow), Marion becomes fascinated. The exchange between the psychiatrist and his patient is interesting to say the least, but Marion finds it precariously relevant in her own life. As she begins eavesdropping on a regular basis, she finds herself reexamining every detail of her existence. It seems that her marriage, friendships, and familial ties are not as ideal as they seem.
Woody Allen tries to plunge into the psychological depths of Bergman with Another Woman, but the film is frequently overwrought in its intellect, pretentious even. Allen has tried drama several times, more often than not with success. 1978's Interiors was stirring in its melancholy catharsis, and future endeavors, such as 2005's Match Point and 2014's Blue Jasmine, explored new territory with the same if not more accomplishment.
Another Woman feels more like an experiment that could have been left as a novel or a short story. At only 81 minutes, it's somewhat abrupt. The ending lets us know that Marion is planning to change her life for the better, but how? Throughout the film, we see her cold shouldering nearly everyone on a regular basis – is she suddenly going to heat up her shoulder and hope for the best?
It's a stupid question I pose, I know, but I think the real problem with the film is how controlled it feels. There is no danger. There is no looseness. It wants to be stark in its atmosphere, and it is, but if it's going to hold back emotional texture, there should be something to fill in for that gaping hole. Another Woman is like an exercise, not a film. It isn't bad in the traditional sense, but in comparison to Allen's other movies, it's a filler, a transition, if you will.
There is plenty for the actors to do: Rowlands, who spent most of the '70s and '80s in her husband's (John Cassavetes) films, ties up her untamed hair and colorful wardrobe for a tight up-do and a bland turtleneck, giving one of her most affecting and impressive performances in the process. Hackman's longing desire is pungent, and Farrow is a force of gloominess in her few scenes. But even though Another Woman is well made and, at times, poignant, it doesn't have enough meat to make it any less than a forgettable exploration for one of cinema's greatest directors.