A movie by, but not with, Woody Allen. And the inevitable question to ask with any Woody Allen movie -- who's the inspiration this time, Fellini or Bergman? -- can be answered as follows: Fellini, specifically The White Sheik, the one about the provincial honeymooner who gets to meet in real life her hero from the fumetti photo novels. But more obviously, the big moment here is a reversal of the moment in Sherlock Jr. where Buster Keaton descends from the projection booth and enters the movie screen, as if through that Window on the World we have always heard so much about. Here, rather, an incongruously khakied and pith-helmeted character in a black-and-white 1935 RKO programmer steps down from the screen, lifesized and in full color, and flees out the exit with a movie-mad hash-house waitress who is seeing the movie for the fifth time. And even further unlike the Keaton, it is no mere dream. With a fantasy level every bit as high as in Zelig, it was unavoidable that questions should come up in the viewer's mind without being put down on screen. Little matter. Sherlock Jr. is open to nitpicking too, but neither there nor here can enough nits be picked to undermine the overall brilliance of the conceit. And in sharp contrast to Zelig, where the joke wore out long before movie's end, here it doesn't. You might only want to squirm while waiting for it first to arrive. After that, the movie changes direction often enough to keep things fresh, if perhaps too often to pursue its ideas at any length. And the ending, given what comes before, is both logical and touching. Mia Farrow, Jeff Daniels. (1985) — Duncan Shepherd
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