bananas

There's no denying that Woody Allen films are an acquired taste. But working at a pace of almost one movie every year for the past four decades, even the most particular cineaste will find something that suits their taste. More often than not, Allen's most effusive praise is reserved for his mid-70s oeuvre like Annie Hall and Manhattan, but his straight-up sketch comedies, predating his Oscar success, are not without their rabid fans too. Bananas (1971) is the director's third feature, and despite a timely plot centered around third-world dictators (do they ever really go out of style?), the film relies mostly on physical comedy routines straight out of the silent era.

Fielding Mellish, another neurotic New Yorker played by Allen himself, is distraught after being dumped by Nancy (Louise Lasser), a die-hard political activist who finds him indescribably lacking. Ticket in hand, Mellish decides to go through with a planned trip to San Marcos, a fictional South American country now under rule by General Emilio Molina Vargas, whose military coup is being undermined by democratic rebels hidden in the vast jungle.

Upon arrival, Mellish is set-up as a patsy by the General, who plans to have him killed by phony rebels to drum up American support for his regime. But the plan goes awry when their patsy is instead rescued by Esposito, the leader of the rebels, who trains Mellish as one of his own. Rising through the ranks, the skittish American winds up as an accidental El Presidente. But will his fame win back the woman he loves?

Bananas is broad comedy but with a capital "B." And even though the film is full of witty zingers ("I should have stayed in college and finished my Black Studies degree. At least, I'd be black by now"), Allen seems more inspired by Harold Lloyd-style shenanigans, weaseling his way out of a mugging on an NYC subway (featuring a young Sylvester Stallone) or walking dramatically into an open manhole. Bananas relies less on Allen's strength as a writer than a performer.

But that doesn't mean there aren't some choice pop culture digs from time to time. The film opens with Howard Cosell covering a political assassination as part of ABC's Wide World of Sports and closes with doing him play-by-play for Mellish's honeymoon. Advertising and foreign policy both get their fair share of deserved skewering in the script, which barely clings together as a complete narrative. Not every joke lands, but the pace all but guarantees a chuckle per minute ratio. Allen would make better films, but he rarely looked like he was having this much fun doing it.

Twilight Time's 3000-copy limited edition Blu-ray is up to the near perfect standard they've established with the rest of Allen's catalog. And like those previous release, extras are limited to an isolated music track, trailer and liner notes.