Interiors, a family drama which has s tragic conclusion strangely reminiscent of Roma, is the film that reveals the filmmaker Allen might have been. A famous admirer of Bergman, among other European auteurs, this was Allen’s serious film whose Bergmanian influence is worn on its sleeve. There’s many a carefully composed shot which goes against the usual Allen grain, giving the film a somewhat ponderous air which at times has the feel of a student homage. On the other hand, there are moments and scenes, in particular the wedding scene, which suggest a more emotionally invested artist than he eventually became. (There may be exceptions to this rule, such as Hannah and Her Sisters and Blue Jasmine). Allen will always be a curious figure, very much of the zeitgeist, revered and now despised in almost equal measure. His star is waning, and has been for many years, even without the scandal, so much so it’s hard to remember how influential and loved he was back in the dog days of the twentieth century. (Or should that be the glory days.) The Allen who turned down the Oscars to play with his jazz band, the one who had mastered the art of independent film making in a way no-one else quite managed in the USA, master of his own destiny, standing apart from the system. Interiors would be an example of this, the artist who was prepared to piss everyone off, the clown who suddenly starts acting in Chekhov plays. It suggests a destiny that Allen would never be able to pursue, because the truth is that his independence was always limited; it was always contingent on working within a lighter register which would make the stars who still queue up to work with him look good. In this context it’s worth celebrating the work of his cast, in particular Keaton, Marybeth Hurt, Geraldine Page and Richard Jordan, who were willing to forego the usual pleasures of being an engaging Allen character to join him on his curious mission to discover his inner, unironic artist.
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