Woody Allen: Playboy Interview

Sol Weinstein, debuting this month as a Playboy interviewer, has thrice regaled our readers—in serializations of Loxfinger, Matzohball and On the Secret Service of His Majesty the Queen—with the exploits of his seltzer-and-sour-cream superspy, Israel Bond. An ex-newspaperman, he drew on his deadline-at-dawn reportorial experience to beard this month's elusive subject in his New York den. Weinstein's dispatch—wired to Playboy collect—begins:

"In the cavernous attic of my ancestral estate, Twin Hangnails, in Levittown, Pennsylvania, the cameramen were set to begin filming my musical version of the notorious French novel The Story of O, retitled Maim for the Stateside market. Under the baton of Bobby Darin, the Marat/Sade Choir was running through the catchy score: 'Who Whupped the Flesh Right Off o' Muh Back, Ma-a-aim?'; 'A Floggy Day'; 'Flagellation T. Cornpone'; and 'You Should Always Hurt the One You Love.' Held in place by a devilish contrivance of barbed-wire clamps was the magnificent naked body quivering in anticipation of the knout. The lovely half-caste, Desirée Mandingo, fixed her fearful eyes on the cruel tip. 'Will it hurt, massa?'

"'Of course it'll hurt, dummy,' I said with some annoyance. 'But you knew what you were getting into when you signed to do the picture. Now, let's keep our bargain. Go on, whip me, whip me!'

"The lash rang out—so did the phone. For a second, I couldn't decide which had been more agonizing—the former's bite or the contumacious snap of the Playboy editor's command: 'Go interview Woody Allen; only keep it on a dead-serious level. Playboy's readers have already gotten their quota of belly laughs from our interview with George Lincoln Rockwell.'

"Damn it! This ukase from the Playboy Building would play hob with my S.R.O schedule of big-league projects. But I owed it to Hefner (‘Ner,’ as he is known to the inner circle), who, by publishing the condensed versions of my Israel Bond espionage masterworks, had lifted me from the mire of obscurity to my present lofty status as a semi-unknown. I barked at my wife: 'Bring me a bowl of Red Heart immediately, clear the decks for action and hold up on the following commitments: (a) my offer to co-author with Harry Kemelman Monday the Rabbi Turned Buddhist; (b) my campaign to have our own rabbi, Irving Fierverker, of Congregation Beth El, ousted because, though he is a holy, learned and fine man, he has failed to bring prestige to our synagogue by his unwillingness to solve a single murder; (c) my production of an LP, William Buckley Reads the Poetry of the Fire-brands of Watts; (d) the telethon I was to host for the CH Foundation [Note: CH is a hush-hush disease not even the Reader's Digest dares talk about—Cerebral Hemorrhoids]; and (e) my exposé for Fact, "What Were Masters and Johnson Really Doing While They Were Supposed to Be Observing Human Sexual Response?"'

"Stalking the career of Heywood (Woody) Allen dictated a change of costume, so I slipped on my Oy Oy Seven trench coat and trench hat, which melded harmoniously with my chronic trench mouth, and touched the flame of my Zippo to my lips, inhaling the pungent scent of scorched flesh. Now, a lesser man would have asked Woody's press agent to ship over a ton of publicity material from which a fast, shallow, insincere 'puff' could have been punched out in two hours. But I am something more than a lesser man, so I told him, 'You keep the clippings, write the story, sign my name to it and send me Playboy's check by special-delivery airmail.' The fink hung up. This business is full of them.

"In its review of Woody's nutty mutilation of a Japanese spy flick, What's Up, Tiger Lily?, Time interviews had described the shriveled Socrates of Brooklyn as 'an anonymous little giggle merchant who looks like a slight defect in the wallpaper pattern', a typical, lightweight Time simile concocted patently by a man who'd never seen Woody close up. A truer depiction, I thought, would be 'the product of a mad night of love between S.J. Perelman and a barn owl.' In any case, I wanted to see for myself, so I arranged my first session with Allen at New York's Morosco Theater, where his first love offering to Broadway, Don't Drink the Water, was in rehearsal.

"The press agent's uncooperative attitude had put me in something of a bind, however, and during the cab ride to the theater, I wondered aloud how I could ferret out the facts pertaining to the Allen saga. 'Oh,' said the bright-faced, crewcut cabby, 'you mean the Woody Allen who started as a teener batting out 25,000 jokes for a PR agency that used them to make its clients hilarious in print, became a top writer for Sid Caesar and Garry Moore and won the Gagwriter of the Year award from George Q. Lewis' Humor Society of America, then became a fledgling comedian at Greenwich Village bistros like the Bitter End, which, in turn, led to smash performances on the Tonight show and The Jack Paar Show, a wild moneymaker of a screenplay, What's New, Pussycat?, a role in Casino Royale and the scripting of Don't Drink the Water and What's Up, Tiger Lily? That Woody Allen?'

"'You've been mildly helpful to me, cabby,' I replied. 'As a reward, I won't mug you.'

"I parked myself in the third row of the theater, my trained eye catching Lou Jacobi, Kay Medford and Anthony Roberts emoting onstage, although it was difficult to pick up their dialog because of the roar of the greasepaint. When I did become acclimated acoustically, I found myself howling at the seemingly endless spate of crackling one-liners.

"'Gosh,' I observed on my way to Woody's dressing room, 'more than three decades have elapsed since Kaufman and Hart brought Once in a Lifetime to the Great White Way—and it still holds up.'

"'Yes' bleated a petulant voice. 'But I wish they had the decency to rehearse my play.'

"The room was completely empty, and I wondered where the voice had come from. Then, after a minute of utter silence, a slight defect in the wallpaper pattern began to move. Making a mental note to renew my subscription to Time, I switched on my Webcor and pleaded with Allen to say anything that was on his mind.

"'Dandruff,' he croaked and started to crawl back into the wallpaper.

"'Woody, I'm a friendly sort, really. I got your albums, and I thought they were just melorooney, alligator' A refreshing hipsterism would cement our relationship fast, I shrewdly reckoned.

"He wore a lavender smoking jacket that had once belonged to Laurence Harvey's dog, and a snug pair of Levi Strauss midafternoon walking jeanlets. He nervously drummed his fingers, which were genuine Slingerlands, against his red-thatched cranium. 'Be kind,' he moaned. 'I'm afraid of my shadow.'

"'From what I can see, you have no shadow,' I said jovially, in a bid to reassure the twitching lad.

"His uneasiness gone, Woody leaned against the dressing-room wall and began to whimper freely. This is the result."