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It feels like it’s been a long time since I’ve watched a Woody Allen film, and despite how complicated his public persona has become, I’ve missed the loopy little worlds full of confused, anxious intelligentsia that he creates. I had to explain all of this—the man’s stature in film history, and the allegations against him, and his subsequent cancellation—to my daughter before showing “Manhattan Murder Mystery” to her, but I don’t think it really even registered. The only thing that connected for her was how hilarious and fun the whole thing was, and also how we live so close to so many of the locations where this was shot. In fact, this same weekend we went to see an art exhibition in midtown and afterwards we walked just two short blocks to the National Arts Club at Gramercy Park to see the window where Diane Keaton watches the city bus go by (there’s no city bus on E 20th St, by the way). Of course part of Allen’s MO was to turn Manhattan into a magical realm and he does that almost as deftly in this lighthearted whodunnit as he did in any of his 1970s masterpieces. Everything is just a little older, more 1990s, with baggier suits and a little more Zach Braff.
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