Given the recent news of two other celebrities whom have become embroiled in sex scandals, talking about Woody Allen is going to prove… problematic, to say the least. What makes this even more awkward is the fact that, unlike the events surrounding Rolf Harris and Bill Cosby of late, it seems that people have forgiven(?) Allen for his actions; or, to be more accurate, developed a capacity to ignore them. Now, I’m a firm believer that a disconnection between the artist and his art is possible and, at times, necessary: Grave Of The Fireflies is an immensely powerful film, but it’s hurt when it’s brought into context of Isao’s intent for the film. I am not condoning Allen’s behaviour by any means; I’m just saying that how he is as a person shouldn’t immediately paint all opinions concerning his art, some of which is still beloved to this day. Hell, if that were the case then no-one would ever listen to another Phil Spector-produced song again. Okay, now that all of that is out of the way, let’s actually get into the film itself so that I can practice what I preach for once about separation of art and artist.
