This is what it’s like.
[and why it’s hard to just “get over it”]
Back sometime in the 70s - I can’t really remember what year - Woody Allen was making a lot of movies, one after the other and getting raves from the “hip” set.
I will admit that at first my adverse reaction to him was engendered by the fact that I couldn’t stand a lot of the folks who were his big fans. I figured that if they liked him, there must be something wrong with him. Then I went to see a couple of his movies. I specifically remember “Sleeper” and “Love and Death.”
That clinched it. The films were hopelessly self-absorbed, tedious in the extreme and perverse in the most bizarre ways that I could never quite put my finger on, but which were very real nonetheless.
I filed Allen away under that category of sexually frustrated twerp that finds the sow’s ear in every pile of silk purses. He further personified that modern fixation on psychotherapy as a substitute for religious faith and sin as something to be accepted and reveled in rather than confessed and corrected.
While I was shocked at the depth of the underlying perversion that has since come to light, I would not call it surprising. That said, I think it’s a damn shame that Sinatra is now gone and unavailable to have some of his cronies exact an appropriate revenge on this vile little pervert and his infamita.
Millstone, anyone?