Let me preface this with a confession that might get me canceled at brunch: I love Woody Allen movies. There. I said it. I realize that saying this in 2025 is like admitting you still own a Bill Cosby poster or enjoy “That’s What She Said” jokes; both of which I do. But love is rarely rational. It’s often inappropriate, complicated, and filled with shame; kind of like the relationships in his movies. Or my twenties.
Naturally, there will be several Allenian appearances in this column, because if I’m going to drag my heart through a cinematic maze of romance, neurosis, and regret, I might as well do it with a clarinet solo and subtitles. And where better to begin than with Annie Hall, the Everest of romantic ambivalence?
There’s a scene; quiet, awkward, and devastatingly funny; that burrows under my skin every time. It’s the middle of the night. Annie (Diane Keaton in her peak rumpled-glam glory) calls Alvy (Allen, peak hypochondriac chic). It’s an emergency, she says. He races across Manhattan, presumably expecting fire, blood, or some terrible act involving gluten. But no. It’s a spider. A huge spider. The kind of spider that requires not just a man, but the man she used to love. Or at least tolerate during meals.
There’s something heartbreakingly familiar in this. The ex who still has your number memorized. The midnight call with no real crisis. The unspoken knowledge that the spider is really a metaphor for something she can’t quite squash on her own. I’ve been Alvy. You’ve probably been Annie. Or maybe you were the spider, caught between two emotionally stunted co-dependents in a rent-controlled apartment.
The brilliance of the scene isn’t just the absurdity; though watching Allen attempt arachnid assassination with the panic of a man defusing a bomb in slippers is comedy gold. It’s the way everything else leaks through. Alvy notices new posters on the wall. Strange books on the coffee table. A whisper of incense in the air, like the ghost of a yoga class. Annie is changing. Evolving. Doing things she never did when they were together, like attending concerts without being dragged or offering chocolate milk like it’s a diplomatic olive branch. He’s baffled. She’s evasive. It’s all perfectly misaligned in that exquisitely human way.
And yet, even in the bickering and backhanded concern, you feel it; the lingering affection. The nostalgia. The romance that’s settled into a sort of emotional timeshare. They don’t belong together anymore, but they still matter to each other. It’s a love story after the love part ends. The footnotes of romance.
What gets me most is how much I see myself in Alvy during that scene. Not the Oscar-winning genius or the perpetual black turtleneck. But the guy who answers the call. Who overanalyzes the posters. Who tries to kill the spider and ends up monologuing about death, loneliness, and rock music. I’ve been that man. I may still be.
Also, I would totally drink the chocolate milk.
So yes, this is my third selection in what will likely be a very neurotic, overly verbal tour through my favorite movie scenes. And if they all end up being from Manhattan or Husbands and Wives, don’t blame me. Blame the spiders.
