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Optimistic moralists might see it as Woody's quest for redemption. Realists will view it as a business venture.
But we cynics ask: Is Small Time Crooks yet another one of Woody Allen's tricks? He sure had us going with Interiors and A Midsummer Night's Sex Comedy. Might this just be his latest bit of filmic prestidigitation? Why would one of America's most creative moviemakers suddenly apply his retrorockets, recede from the cutting edge, and offer up this convivial enough but rather tame and traditional comedy about a hapless crook (Mr. Allen) and his status-seeking wife (Tracey Ullman)?
The easy answer is money. While Mr. Allen's artistic efforts more often than not receive critical praise, their inevitably limited appearance, primarily in college towns and on urbane inner city screens, grosses them relatively small sums compared to any number of wide-release comedies of less consequential pedigree. Hence the conjecture is, that by reprising a pure comic character we haven't seen since Take The Money and Run and Bananas, the combination of nostalgia and unpretentious fun will justify placing Small Time Crooks on cineplex marquees. It just may be so. And in light of the laughs, mostly titters and chuckles but very few guffaws, Mr. Allen cranks out, one shouldn't mind the economic manipulation too much.
The everyman schmo this go-round is Ray Winkler (Allen), a safecracker hell-bent on renting the empty pizzeria two doors down from the bank, tunnelling under to the cash, and then taking it on thee lam for Florida. He and his impossibly stupid partners (wackily realised by Michael Rapaport, John Lovitz and Tony Darrow), proof positive that V.P. Dan Quayle wasn't all wrong when he said "A mind is a terrible thing to lose," have agreed to contribute $6,000 each in seed money. But when Ray initially tries to convince wife Frenchy, a former exotic dancer with a penchant for leopard bedspreads and all other things tacky, that his plan is their ticket to a better life, it dawns on us that this is the filmmaker's little homage to Jackie Gleason's The Honeymooners.
The parable that follows could very well pass for an expanded episode of that classic TV show, albeit delivered with defining sprinkles of Mr. Allen's inimitable shtick. And although Ray never quite says "One of these days; Pow! Right in the kisser" when Frenchy jeers at his get-rich-quick scheme, a noticeably more fragile but possibly face-lifted Woody issues several variations of his own.
In what amounts to an urban idyll, Frenchy may chide and deride her man, but beneath her rough exterior wrapped in déclassé glad rags she is Allen's ultimate female fantasy, the perfect purveyor of unconditional love. Played with enamouring comic verve by Miss Ullman, she is much too loyal a wife to deny her small time crook a chance at his dreams. So she gives in.
Naturally, the plan goes bust right from the get-go as Ray and his band of unlikely excavators, overly concerned with making a fashion statement in their flashlight-equipped miner's hats, pierce a water main. But since irony is the main ingredient of such fables, the whimsical result of all Ray's subterranean machinations is the reaping of a treasure despite him. You see, up above in the former pizzeria, posing as a cover for the would-be bank robbers, Frenchy's cookie business has been baking up a fortune.
Fast forward and they're filthy rich, a tasteless, gaudy, townhouse version of the Beverly Hillbillies. But aside from outfitting himself in the loudest jackets available, undoubtedly selected from the Nouveau Riche collection at Bergdorf's, Ray isn't very happy. And neither is Frenchy, only she just doesn't know it.
Obsessed with obliterating her ignoble roots, Frenchy is determined to buy her way up the social ladder. And this dire need serves as an entree for David, a cosmopolitan art dealer portrayed with convincing temperament by Hugh Grant. A ready Henry Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle, Frenchy sees him as her ticket to a seat on one of those art museum boards that she so desperately covets. And even though Ray just wishes he could chomp on a hamburger instead of contending with the onslaught of snails and other such haute cuisine Frenchy has him imbibing in the name of proper breeding, the Winklers hire the perfect Brit snob to teach them culture. Churn these ingredients together, insert a hint of a love triangle, and there you have it, Woody Allen's latest example of romantic comedy.
To please die-hard Woody fans that just can't leave the Revolution at home, the humorous end of class struggle is thrown in for good measure. And the cast of zany fortune hunters, including a very ditsy Elaine May, also have something to say about society, human nature, love and the corporate world.
Still, you can't help but wonder if there's something more to this. Maybe playing the motion picture backwards will unearth secret messages. But the practical suggestion here is to simply view Small Time Crooks as a side dish to an astonishing career, a gag-filled, neo-Vaudevillian diversion that's close, but no exploding cigar.
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