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I don’t imagine there is a cinephile alive who could deny the hard-hitting impact of the opening minutes of Woody Allen’s films or somehow overlook them. Lively and surging even in their stillness, hurling the viewer into the universe of the film without any convoluted exposition or aimless wandering, rapidly instilling a drive to follow along, and serving not merely as Allen’s first step, but his most resolute one on the road ahead. For the way his works begin shares a tight, cohesive bond with the story and the manner of presenting what we are about to discern; it would be naive to view it as merely a creative gesture to impress the viewer with the filmmaker’s inventive mind, and further naive—following this flawed assumption—to accuse him of narcissism [1]. Taking multiple shots of New York’s urban landscape and continually revising the narrator’s descriptions of his fantasies is as much a necessity of Manhattan in light of our subsequent observations as the opening report of Bananas and its attempt to critique media, death, history, politics, and people big and small from the heart of a television parody (simultaneously critiquing television parody itself!). Indeed, the sound coming from the pedals of Allen’s nostalgic bicycle (intended to invoke nostalgia) does not morph mid-journey into the sound of, say, an airplane or a speedboat; it slows down, it speeds up, but it continues with the same rhythm and is never replaced.
However, it must be said that these explanations apply only to the opening moments of his films, not to the title sequence that greets us before the film begins—a title sequence that both shies away from maintaining a convincing relationship with what follows and, by inhabiting a dual persona, delights in presenting itself as external to the work. My point here is not to ask why we are confronted with such an approach, for this very issue forms the foundational cornerstone of the viewer’s intellectual frame, forcing us to realize that if modern thought possesses its own specific, repeatable rules and obliges the filmmaker to engage in comparative evaluation, then apart from the film’s modern characters and their world (which also reaches the end of its lifespan after a decade or two), what fundamental difference is there between it and a classic example?! Well, this too is a classic in its own right, isn’t it?

In continuing to address the peculiar status of title sequences in Allen’s oeuvre, we encounter a recurring and intriguing phenomenon: the visual aspect of the title sequence approaches a singular principle, while its auditory aspect drifts away from any principle whatsoever. Barring a few exceptions, the background of these title sequences is black, set in a white Windsor font [2]; the speed at which the names change is uniform, the crew credits are ordered in identical fashion, and the actors’ names are listed alphabetically—they all look alike. On the other hand, however, the audio yields a fresh experience every time, and its extraordinary variety ensures that the sound keeps pace with and matches the visual elements that have become striking through repetition. Yet despite all this, what proves more identity-defining in these title sequences is not these superficial appearances, but the evocation of an idea: yet another Woody Allen title sequence. But does this notion not stem from a homogenizing perspective, when Allen has always fled from tedious uniformities? If so, then what is this “yet another Woody Allen title sequence,” and where does it come from? Before analyzing this issue, I will briefly mention a few examples of these title sequences by way of reminder.
In several of his films, the title sequence unfolds in complete silence, after which—as in Annie Hall—a storm breaks loose, or—as in Interiors—it lingers in the quiet before the storm. In a greater number of instances, however, the silence of the title sequence breaks and is accompanied by music; at times, this music is instrumental, as in Love and Death, and at other times accompanied by vocals, as in Magic in the Moonlight. In one category, the music stops when the title sequence ends—sometimes abruptly cut short, as in Deconstructing Harry, and sometimes reaching its own natural conclusion, as in Bullets over Broadway. In another category, the music continues beyond the title sequence—sometimes the exact same track carries over, as in New York Stories, and sometimes a different piece of music plays immediately following the title music, as in Hannah and Her Sisters. Occasionally, the music follows the mood of the film—be it buoyant, as in Sleeper, or steeped in yearning, as in The Purple Rose of Cairo. At other times, it moves against the grain of the film—such as the joyful music in Stardust Memories contrasting with the film’s somber tone, or the mournful score in Manhattan Murder Mystery standing at odds with the film’s lively atmosphere. On the other hand, a work like Sweet and Lowdown, which traverses several distinct emotional landscapes—switching from comedy to tragedy from moment to moment—features multiple musical tracks in its title sequence, each pulling our mood in a different direction. At times, the film does not begin with the title sequence; rather, the title sequence plays after a scene has already been shown—sometimes with music over the titles, as in Another Woman, and sometimes with the dialogue of the protagonist heard over the title sequence, as in Midnight in Paris. In works like Zelig, there is no title sequence at all, confronting the viewer with an unmediated prologue. Truly, the variety is far from modest!
Now consider that every title sequence across his nearly fifty films features a combination of these aforementioned ideas; even the un-combinable elements repeat across different periods. For instance, Everyone Says I Love You, like Zelig, lacks an opening title sequence altogether, for which no definitive explanation can be found. Similarly, the selection of title music is rarely dead-serious, nor does its backstory stem from philosophical contemplation—even in those that appear more distinct, such as the Spanish song in Vicky Cristina Barcelona or the Italian track in To Rome with Love. The mere fact that these songs are played throughout the film, that their lyrics evoke the nostalgic character of the city, or that they intermittently carry a romantic theme does not imply that the song in question is inseparable, unique, or irreplaceable. They bear no narrative or even thematic relationship (from the standpoint of narrative structure) to the film, and any other song in a similar style could easily replace them.
Let us return to the question. Why are all of these simultaneously “Allenian”? Why is it that when we encounter similar title sequences by other filmmakers and Allen is evoked in our minds (not necessarily through the lens of influence, let alone copying or imitation), we cannot evaluate them within a single framework? What pre-existing intellectual and emotional backdrop, what imaginary assembly of unfulfilled conjectures, and what fleeting characteristic sets an Allen title sequence apart from the rest? And furthermore, when we say “an Allen title sequence,” which title sequence do we actually mean?
The truth is, I highly doubt a definitive answer to this question (or these questions) exists, and I look upon any clear-cut answer in this domain with skepticism. I do not know whether this matter has ever been put to Allen himself, but even if he were to offer an answer grounded in a logical pattern, I doubt I would trust his answer! For I believe in the pattern-defying nature of his works (which includes his title sequences) relative to his own patterns. I maintain that any of his works that reincarnated another of his films from any perspective was never created with the intent of self-repetition; whatever exists was created anew, though because it springs from the same core, it appears similar to another. Essentially, in analyzing Allen’s cinema, paying too close attention to the order of dominoes lining up across different sections (however precise and fitting they may be) can easily lead us astray. Meanwhile, by returning to that very core, we arrive at simpler and more accurate answers to our cinematic questions [3]—though because of their unpredictable source, these answers are not absolute, and where they do exist, they likely hold a distinct meaning for each individual viewer. Nevertheless, so that the purpose of this text does not remain obscure and the premise of its undertaking is not thrown into question (when there is no single answer), allow me to use that very unpredictable source to reach at least an initial conclusion. The answer to the question in one word (and a brief explanation): mischief.
If our concept of “mischief” in filmmaking were limited to laughter (or at least a smile), finding an entry point into analyzing his works would not be overly difficult. Of course, in Allen’s case, this entry point right before our eyes leads into the labyrinth of his mind, and getting lost in it would take us far beyond the primary objective of this essay, making it unwise to venture through here. Furthermore, for lovers of Allen’s cinema, the nature of his mischief and its synthesis with our smiles—in form and content, story and dialogue, casting and performance, and homages to his favorites—requires no explanation; it is self-evident. But should mischief be viewed solely from this angle? Do not dominance, sovereignty, defiance, subversion, infraction, and trickery fit within the definition of mischief? Most certainly they do, and Allen makes no small use of them—not necessarily to take us along on a comedic carnival or under the pretext of leading us to a sad destination, like the satire of Take the Money and Run or the nostalgic melancholy of Radio Days, but to take us to a destination miles away from comedy. Is the unrelenting anxiety and dread of the final act of Match Point—and our anticipation of an innocent person being killed as quickly and cleanly as possible—not the filmmaker’s ruthless mischief attempting to make us an accomplice? When Allen gradually strips the audience of all emotion (not in the sense of emptiness, but rather bewilderment) and leaves us wandering through the decisions of his characters, as in the endings of Crimes and Misdemeanors and Broadway Danny Rose, is that not a frightening form of mischief on his part? Is translating the darkness of A Streetcar Named Desire into the lush, vibrant palette of Blue Jasmine to produce a work equally devastating [4] not his bitter mischief in keeping alive that which we wish were dead? Can this ever-present mischief not take the title sequence under its wing as well? And can it not be that missing motif which, despite all its fluidity, stands firm and firm-footed, defining all these incongruities in a single word?

*****

Gabe (played by Woody Allen) says a fascinating line in Husbands and Wives: “Isn’t it amazing? You think you know people so well and you’re so close to them, and then suddenly you realize you don’t have a clue what’s going on in their heads.” Well, this line could easily refute line by line everything written here… what are we to do with that?

Footnotes:
The title of the essay is a recurring line of dialogue in Allen’s works.
[1] Though we could easily attribute this accusation to Allen’s screen persona! In Stardust Memories, Allen, playing a filmmaker (who bears striking similarities to his real self), confesses that if he could be identified as a figure from Greek mythology, that person would not be Narcissus (the youth who falls in love with his own reflection in the water out of pure self-absorption), but Zeus!
[2] Windsor font.
[3] Undoubtedly, the spirit animating Woody Allen’s films that causes this phenomenon would have no existence whatsoever in the absence of those very dominoes.
[4] Of course, this is not meant to compare Blue Jasmine with Tennessee Williams’s peerless masterpiece.