Five years ago, the ever-prolific, yet controversial, filmmaker Woody Allen released his memoir during the pandemic, its reception akin to an unwelcome airborne particle.
Now, approaching his 90s, Allen has ventured into his first novel. At just 152 pages, it’s technically a novella, but we’ll extend him the courtesy of a ‘senior discount’ on its classification.
Indeed, it’s never too late for a new literary endeavor! And while “What’s With Baum?” won’t stun you, it’s perfectly adequate. Amidst a tumultuous week where even the concept of free speech felt challenged, it managed to elicit a few muted laughs from this reviewer.
The protagonist, Asher Baum, is instantly recognizable from Allen’s classic films: a 51-year-old with “full but incoherent” hair, plagued by anxiety and acid reflux. But in a humorous, surprising departure, he’s initially introduced as a 19th-century goatherd.
Just kidding, of course! Baum barely scrapes by as a Manhattan journalist for “small magazines,” even penning book reviews – a profession Allen once humorously consigned to the fifth floor of hell in “Deconstructing Harry,” alongside subway muggers. Set in a post-Covid era, Baum’s mornings involve reading The New York Times on his phone, perched beside his third wife, Connie, and her laptop, savoring “a gram of pleasure” from his morning insights.
His marital history is classic Allen: his first marriage dissolved when he fell for his wife’s identical twin, and his second ended when his spouse eloped to New Zealand with a rock drummer to start a sheep farm.
Baum yearns for recognition in the worlds of serious fiction or theater. However, his plays consistently flop (except for one surprisingly successful run in Slovenia), and publishers label him as ponderous, obsessed with “dark matter,” and ultimately unmarketable.
“Can’t you drop that fixation and write something with a little schmaltz?” one publisher implores, much like a musical producer demanding a catchy tune. Another, of Indian descent (reminiscent of the esteemed Sonny Mehta of Knopf), advises him to “take out the wisdom.” Baum, prone to xenophobia even with his Xanax, then ponders if he “was deep or just an Indian.”
Connie, Baum’s third wife, is another source of his relentless angst. A Beverly Hills native, much like Allen’s past partner Mia Farrow, she cherishes their country home. Yet, its profound silence, abundant wildlife, and endless starry skies (“What is going on up there?”) only plunge Baum into vague terror. He prefers the city, where “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 family, Baum harbors paranoid suspicions that Connie, whom he somewhat disturbingly refers to as a “complex thoroughbred,” is having an affair with his brother, Josh. Josh is a wealthy real estate developer who, according to Baum, “beat the Jewish thing” with his “handsome Italianate face.”
One of the book’s central conceits, a pun indeed, is that Baum, unable to find a suitable audience among family, friends, or even therapists for his endless complaining, resorts to talking to himself. It’s a narrative device reminiscent of Allen’s classic “Annie Hall” line – “Hey, don’t knock masturbation. It’s sex with someone I love” – combined with a touch of “Sybil.”
Adding a more unsettling layer to the plot, Connie appears to be entangled in a Jocasta complex with her son, Thane. Unlike his stepfather’s struggles, Thane’s debut novel is a bestseller, earning him a National Book Award nomination. His girlfriend, to Baum’s chagrin, is a “farm fresh” echo of Baum’s second wife. Baum dismisses Thane as “That little coddled egg, that Midwich Cuckoo,” a clever nod to the classic 1957 science fiction novel by John Wyndham, branding him “A spoiled, supercilious cockalorum with all the answers.”
The novel is dotted with references to literary and cultural figures, from W.H. Auden, Robert Burns, and Larry Hart, to the Strand bookstore and restaurateur Keith McNally, one of the author’s staunchest defenders. It also features a timely plagiarism plot and a thrilling climactic chase scene. The prose itself has a few missing commas and peculiar misspellings, alongside descriptions like the “immaculate succulence” of a Park Avenue Bard graduate and a tight-skirted dermatologist examining Baum’s concerning black spots.
Allen writes, perhaps controversially, of the dermatologist: “She didn’t take insurance,” “and that fact aroused him.”
Much like Alvy Singer’s inadvertent encounter with filth in Central Park, immersing oneself in “What’s With Baum?” feels akin to an otherwise pleasant stroll through Washington Square Park, suddenly interrupted by an unfortunate step in dog waste.
The review acknowledges the persistent controversy surrounding Allen: despite never being charged with a crime after accusations of child molestation by his adopted daughter, Dylan, the public in New York has remained critical, especially since his relationship with and eventual marriage to Mia Farrow’s adopted daughter, Soon-Yi Previn. “What’s With Baum?” is notably dedicated to Previn, featuring a Groucho Marx-esque dedication: “Where did you learn that?”
Mirroring his creator’s own public struggles, Baum faces the threat of “cancellation” after an incident where he either grabbed, or perhaps merely broke his fall with, the breast of an admiring, attractive reporter knowledgeable in Hannah Arendt.
“Cindy, Mindy Loo,” the character’s less refined inner voice recalls. “The Chinese one, whatever her name was.”
“It was Cindy Tanaka and she was Japanese,” his conscience corrects him.
Yet, this is Woody Allen: despite facing significant career setbacks from the entertainment industry, he still manages to churn out a mischievous piece of autumnal prose, much like others might casually enjoy a game of pickleball.
The book, WHAT’S WITH BAUM? by Woody Allen, is published by Post Hill Press, runs 192 pages, and costs $28.