Woody Allen’s Annie Hall was a game-changer for the perennial filmmaker who had delivered mostly farces and satires up to that point. It establishes the unique style of his subsequent work, more of a romantic comedy with somber undertones and less of a cartoonish spoof—however irony and satire are still very much on display. I find Annie Hall charming if not altogether successful. Some of it hasn’t aged well, for a variety of reasons, and it’s definitely a product of its time. In the following years, Allen would improve upon several aspects, such as nostalgic scenes from his childhood, which are rendered to perfection in Radio Days, or his onscreen, paranoid persona, honed with greater clarity and impact in Hannah and Her Sisters.

Annie Hall is essentially a movie about a breakup, told in nonlinear segments, jumping back and forth from the present to the recent or distant past and ultimately to the future for its coda. Allen plays Alvy Singer, a successful standup comedian who talks directly to the camera, often in isolated vignettes or even in the middle of his own scene. He chats with random strangers on the street who give him “Greek Chorus” advice, commenting on his actions from an omnipotent or hyper-aware perspective. Split screens show people conversing with each other in separate locations. Other characters interact from different periods in time. Subtitles reveal the main couple’s thoughts. There’s even a brief animated sequence where Annie (Diane Keaton) is depicted as the Evil Queen from Disney’s Snow White. There’s no shortage of imagination on hand here. It’s brilliant stuff.

Diane Keaton and Woody Allen.

Annie’s iconic look.

Allen and Keaton have great chemistry as the two leads, and he wrote the part for her—a role that won her an Oscar for Best Actress. It was tailor-made to suit her quirky, eccentric, and appealing screen personality, and she makes a lasting impression. Speaking of “tailor-made,” Annie’s post-tennis ensemble of a man’s tie, fedora, and vest (Ruth Morley, costume designer) became a cultural phenomenon in the late ’70s, known as the “Annie Hall look.” The supporting cast is terrific as well: Tony Roberts as Alvy’s showbiz friend and confidante; Carol Kane, Shelley Duvall, and Janet Margolin as a trio of romantic interests; Annie’s staunch mother Colleen Dewhurst and her slightly insane younger brother Christopher Walken; plus music icon Paul Simon as a mogul and adversary for Alvy who woos Annie out to the West Coast.

There are some genuinely hilarious moments in the film, with probably the biggest laugh going to Alvy’s unintentional sneeze right into a box of cocaine. They spar with lobsters in the kitchen and spiders in the bathroom, they people-watch to their own private commentary in Central Park, and when Alvy joins Annie’s white-bread family for dinner, he suddenly morphs into a Hasidic rabbi at the table.

Alvy Singer (Woody Allen), as he perceives himself through the eyes of Annie’s relatives.

Some of the humor and situations were easier to digest in the 1970s than they are today, mostly because they had never been discussed to that level. America went from the idealized repression of the 1950s and early ’60s into an explosive era of truth-telling, no matter how painful. It was time to get everything out in the open and expose it. I do believe some of the best humor arises from painful situations. It’s our way of processing it and putting it into perspective. Humor makes taboo subjects accessible, and there’s a rush of freedom to be found in that. Norman Lear knew this as a pioneer of such breakthrough TV shows as All in the Family, Maude, Good Times, and The Jeffersons. Mel Brooks delivered the same prejudice by way of huge laughs in movies like Blazing Saddles and The Producers. Woody Allen did it his way, bringing antisemitism out in the open through punchlines and self-deprecation.

Audiences have changed over time, as they should, and it’s no longer enough just to expose issues and digest them with a laugh. Time marches on, and we crave action and a better understanding. Political correctness is the new norm, and today these films and TV shows don’t sit well with younger crowds unless it’s as a curiosity. With humor, context is everything—something we all should remember—and we aren’t living in the ’70s anymore. I say that with a twinge of nostalgia but a firm grasp on the importance of advancement. There’s also the issue of Allen’s personal life, which has made headlines for decades and soured many fans on his films. They can’t separate the the man from the art, and I’m not asking them to. I like a lot of his films. I can’t block out what I read or see about him, nor do I presume to know the truth, but I won’t deny the quality of his work, either.

Annie Hall came along at just the right time, and so did Woody Allen. Moviegoers were ready for his unique, candid voice that allowed them to laugh out loud and examine people, relationships, prejudices, life, death, and love with great frankness and insight. This is the film where Allen truly found his voice.

Annie Hall