WHAT’S WITH BAUM? by Woody Allen
Five years ago, the prolific and partially controversial filmmaker Woody Allen released his memoir into the pandemic, much like an unwelcome aerosol.
Now, approaching 90, Allen has released his first novel. At 152 pages, it’s technically a novella, but we’ll extend him the senior courtesy.
It’s truly never too late! And “What’s With Baum?,” as it’s titled, is not a bad read. It’s perfectly adequate. Reading it late in the week, with heated debates swirling around free speech, it managed to elicit a few muted chuckles.
Baum is the protagonist, a character instantly recognizable from Allen’s most acclaimed films: 51 years old, with “full but incoherent” hair, plagued by anxiety and acid reflux. In a surprising twist, he’s initially described as a 19th-century goatherd.
Just kidding, of course. Baum actually carves out an improbable career in Manhattan journalism, contributing to “small magazines” and even writing book reviews. (This recalls a scene from Allen’s 1997 film “Deconstructing Harry,” where book critics are humorously relegated to the fifth floor of hell, alongside subway muggers and aggressive panhandlers.) The story is set in a post-Covid era, with Baum reading The New York Times on his phone, beside his third wife, Connie, and her laptop, savoring “a gram of pleasure over his spontaneous aperçu” with his breakfast.
His first marriage dissolved when he fell for his spouse’s identical twin; his second ended after his wife relocated to New Zealand with a rock drummer to pursue sheep farming.
Baum yearns to establish himself in serious fiction or theater, but his plays have met with little success (though one did surprisingly well in Slovenia). Publishers, however, find him overly ponderous, fixated on “dark matter,” and ultimately unmarketable.
One publisher candidly asks, “Can’t you get off that kick and come up with a book that has a little schmaltz?”—a demand reminiscent of a musical producer seeking a hummable tune. Another, of Indian descent, echoing the famous Sonny Mehta of Knopf, advises him to “take out the wisdom.” (Baum, who pairs his Xanax with a dose of xenophobia, ponders whether the advice stems from his own profundity or merely the publisher’s heritage.)
Connie, his wife, is yet another source of his anxiety. A Beverly Hills native, much like Allen’s former partner Mia Farrow, she adores her country home. Yet, the tranquility, wildlife, and vast starry nights (“What is going on up there?”) fill Baum with an undefined sense of dread. He rationalizes that in the city, “there’s people, there’s police cars, good Samaritans and doormen. If you’re isolated in a country house and a car pulls up at 3 a.m. — brother, that’s all she wrote.”
And speaking of brothers, Baum harbors paranoid suspicions that Connie, whom he describes as a “complex thoroughbred,” is having an affair with his brother, Josh. Josh is a successful real estate entrepreneur who, in Baum’s estimation, “beat the Jewish thing” with his “handsome Italianate face.”
One of the novel’s core themes, and a clever pun, is Baum’s habit of talking to himself. Unable to find a suitable confidant among family, friends, or even an analyst for his incessant complaining, he turns inward. This internal dialogue is the narrative equivalent of Woody Allen’s famous “Annie Hall” line from 1977 — “Hey, don’t knock masturbation. It’s sex with someone I love” — blended with a touch of “Sybil.”
A more unsettling plot point reveals Connie trapped in a Jocasta complex with her son, Thane. In stark contrast to his stepfather, Thane’s debut novel is a bestseller, even shortlisted for a National Book Award, and his girlfriend bears a “farm fresh” resemblance to Baum’s second wife. Baum dismisses Thane as “that little coddled egg, that Midwich Cuckoo,” a clever nod to John Wyndham’s 1957 science fiction novel. He further sneers, “A spoiled, supercilious cockalorum with all the answers.”
The book is peppered with references to literary figures like W.H. Auden, Robert Burns, and Larry Hart, as well as New York landmarks such as the Strand bookstore and Balthazar restaurateur Keith McNally, a steadfast supporter of the author. The narrative also includes a contemporary plagiarism subplot, a climactic chase, and some minor editorial quirks like missing commas and unusual misspellings. Further details include the “immaculate succulence” of a Park Avenue Bard graduate and a tight-skirted dermatologist examining Baum’s concerning black spots.
“She didn’t take insurance,” Allen quips, “and that fact aroused him.”
Much like Alvy Singer’s absent-minded dip into Central Park Lake only to find his hand sullied, reading “What’s With Baum?” feels akin to enjoying a pleasant walk through Washington Square Park and then unexpectedly stepping in doggy doo.
Despite being accused of child molestation by his adopted daughter, Dylan, Allen has never faced criminal charges. However, public perception in New York soured when he left Mia Farrow for her adopted daughter, Soon-Yi Previn, whom he later married in a defiant and lasting union. “What’s With Baum?” is dedicated to Previn, featuring the playfully suggestive, Groucho Marx-esque line, “Where did you learn that?”
Similar to his creator’s experiences, Baum faces the threat of “cancellation” after an incident involving an admiring, attractive reporter knowledgeable in Hannah Arendt – where he either grabbed or, perhaps, merely broke his fall with, one of her breasts.
“Cindy, Mindy Loo,” Bad Baum recalls her name. “The Chinese one, whatever her name was.”
“It was Cindy Tanaka, and she was Japanese,” Better Baum corrects him sharply.
Oy! Yet, this is quintessential Woody Allen: even after facing significant industry backlash, he continues to produce mischievous prose, much like others might casually enjoy a game of pickleball.
WHAT’S WITH BAUM? | By Woody Allen | Post Hill Press | 192 pp. | $28