This odd, offbeat film is a true cultural artifact of its time -- the turbulent, disorienting, angst drenched brief period of transition from the exuberant, flowery, naive 60s to the cold, crass, furiously superficial 70s. Tough times, emotionally and psychologically, for anyone who was paying any kind of attention to the rapid evaporation of that quaint, doomed-from-its-birth concept popularly advertised as "The American Dream." In other words, this weird movie is an artified expression of that outrageously surreal absurdity that we know and fear as Reality. Heavy, man.
Sure, Dustin Hoffman is thoroughly captivating, radiating his signature brand of endearingly charming neurosis as Georgie Solloway, a Dylanesque Folk/Pop Singer/Songwriter Star; a sort of hippiefied, odder, more troubled Woody Allen vibe. New York City just seemed to be rife with these kind of semi-tragic self absorbed antihero types whose only superpower is blunt unfiltered honesty. Trainfulls of 'em zigzagging across town and zipping up and down the island, like motorized armadas of nervous nutty nebbishy nobodys. Except Georgie is a Somebody.
And then he meets his perfect match in the delightfully distracted, lovely lady Allison played brilliantly by Barbara Harris. Allison's a singer/actress, of course, who hasn't had a linear (boring) thought in probably 1,000 years. She's a force of nature in a miniskirt, if nature lives in a 5 story walkup on the Lower West Side. Georgie and Allison chat aimiably about death and tedious trivialities, as well as about the weight of their own individual private universes. It's often fascinating conversation and almost just as often mind numbing, in a strangely delicate, sweet way.
He trusts his psychoanalyst/therapist of 7+ years, played by the always solid and impressive Jack Warden, who happens to be an accent hopping Sigmund Freud wannabe, at least in the clouded, warped eyes and mind of poor struggling Georgie. It's a fun conceit, and Georgie even hallucinates his doctor suddenly breaking out in a musical number that has him pleasantly exclaiming just how sick he is of listening to Georgie's neverending tales of woe. It's very funny.
Georgie's frequent suicide fantasies are sprung on us with little or no warning, the cummulative effect of which leaves us nearly indifferent to the prospect that he may actually go through with it soon enough. It's a genuinely peculiar emotional limbo that we're placed in by all the wild, wacky, frantic shennanigans, one that doesn't fully reveal its profound psychological impact till well after the end credits have run. Perhaps days later.
In fact, the ending is so confidently content to leave us unsure of just what the holy heck we've been gawking at for the past 108 minutes, it all ultimately actually seems to somehow make sense. Somehow. Sort of... Don't think about it too much, it'll only drive ya nuts.
Sure, Dustin Hoffman is thoroughly captivating, radiating his signature brand of endearingly charming neurosis as Georgie Solloway, a Dylanesque Folk/Pop Singer/Songwriter Star; a sort of hippiefied, odder, more troubled Woody Allen vibe. New York City just seemed to be rife with these kind of semi-tragic self absorbed antihero types whose only superpower is blunt unfiltered honesty. Trainfulls of 'em zigzagging across town and zipping up and down the island, like motorized armadas of nervous nutty nebbishy nobodys. Except Georgie is a Somebody.
And then he meets his perfect match in the delightfully distracted, lovely lady Allison played brilliantly by Barbara Harris. Allison's a singer/actress, of course, who hasn't had a linear (boring) thought in probably 1,000 years. She's a force of nature in a miniskirt, if nature lives in a 5 story walkup on the Lower West Side. Georgie and Allison chat aimiably about death and tedious trivialities, as well as about the weight of their own individual private universes. It's often fascinating conversation and almost just as often mind numbing, in a strangely delicate, sweet way.
He trusts his psychoanalyst/therapist of 7+ years, played by the always solid and impressive Jack Warden, who happens to be an accent hopping Sigmund Freud wannabe, at least in the clouded, warped eyes and mind of poor struggling Georgie. It's a fun conceit, and Georgie even hallucinates his doctor suddenly breaking out in a musical number that has him pleasantly exclaiming just how sick he is of listening to Georgie's neverending tales of woe. It's very funny.
Georgie's frequent suicide fantasies are sprung on us with little or no warning, the cummulative effect of which leaves us nearly indifferent to the prospect that he may actually go through with it soon enough. It's a genuinely peculiar emotional limbo that we're placed in by all the wild, wacky, frantic shennanigans, one that doesn't fully reveal its profound psychological impact till well after the end credits have run. Perhaps days later.
In fact, the ending is so confidently content to leave us unsure of just what the holy heck we've been gawking at for the past 108 minutes, it all ultimately actually seems to somehow make sense. Somehow. Sort of... Don't think about it too much, it'll only drive ya nuts.