Film Review: Play It Again, Sam (1972)

The alchemy of cinema has long possessed the uncanny ability to unite legends from disparate epochs within a single frame, transcending time and cultural shifts. A prime example of this magic is Herbert Ross’s Play It Again, Sam (1972), a film that stitches together the sardonic neuroses of Woody Allen with the ghostly charisma of Humphrey Bogart, a star long immortalised in Hollywood’s golden age. While undeniably uneven in execution, the film remains a compelling cocktail of nostalgia, cinephilic reverence, and 1970s countercultural flair. Its flaws—patchy humour, stagy pacing—are offset by its ambition to serve as both a love letter to classic cinema and a wry commentary on modern romantic disillusionment. Here, Allen’s trademark wit collides with Bogart’s mythic stoicism, creating a dialogue between old Hollywood glamour and New Hollywood introspection.

Central to the film’s identity is Woody Allen, who here wears multiple hats: playwright, screenwriter, and lead actor. Notably, Play It Again, Sam marks only the second time in his career—after 1965’s What’s Up, Pussycat?—that Allen surrendered directorial control, this time to Herbert Ross, a former choreographer whose cinematic instincts would later flourish in the 1970s with films like The Goodbye Girl. Ross’s background in movement and timing proves vital, as he navigates the script’s theatrical roots (adapted from Allen’s own Broadway play) with a fluidity that avoids staginess. For Allen, the collaboration represents a rare concession—a stepping stone between his early slapstick era and the more refined, self-directed comedies that would define his career. Ross’s contribution, though understated, ensures the film transcends mere vanity project, grounding Allen’s absurdity in a coherent visual language.

Allen’s protagonist, Alex Felix, is a quintessential avatar of the artist’s on-screen persona: a neurotic, self-deprecating film critic reeling from a humiliating divorce. Relocated from Allen’s usual New York haunts to the misty, cable-car-lined streets of San Francisco, Felix idolises Humphrey Bogart, conjuring imaginary conversations with the actor’s spirit (embodied by Jerry Lacy) as a coping mechanism. His attempts to re-enter the dating pool, orchestrated by best friend Dick (Tony Roberts) and Dick’s wife Linda (Diane Keaton), devolve into cringe-inducing farce—think spilled wine, panic attacks, and pratfalls. Yet beneath the slapstick lies a poignant exploration of male insecurity, with Felix’s bumbling masking a fear of emotional authenticity. When Dick’s absence sparks a slow-burn romance between Felix and Linda, the film pivots from comedy of errors to bittersweet melodrama, mirroring the tragic romanticism of Bogart’s Casablanca. The moral quandary—falling for a friend’s spouse—is handled with surprising nuance, elevating the latter half beyond mere parody.

Often dismissed as minor Allen, Play It Again, Sam ironically aligns more closely with his later, acclaimed works than his anarchic early comedies. Unlike the absurdist chaos of Bananas (1971) or Take the Money and Run (1969), this film prioritises character-driven humour and romantic pathos, foreshadowing the maturity of Annie Hall (1977). That said, its theatrical origins linger like a spectre. Dialogue often feels declamatory, and scenes unfold in static blocks reminiscent of stage acts. Ross cleverly mitigates this by exploiting San Francisco’s cinematic potential—the Golden Gate Bridge, Alcatraz, and fog-drenched piers—to evoke the noirish ambiance of Bogart’s 1940s classics. The city becomes a character in itself, its timeless beauty contrasting with Felix’s modern-day angst.

The film’s brevity (85 minutes) exacerbates its tonal whiplash. The first act leans heavily on repetitive physical comedy—Felix’s disastrous dates with a parade of caricatured women border on tiresome. Allen’s dialogue, usually razor-sharp, here feels undercooked, relying on exaggerated mannerisms rather than wit. Yet the narrative gains traction in the second half, as Felix’s entanglement with Linda mirrors the doomed romance of Casablanca. Ross stages the climax—a reimagining of Bogart’s farewell to Ingrid Bergman—with deft irony. Felix, channelling Bogart’s stoicism, sacrifices love for friendship, but the gesture feels less noble than narcissistic, a man play-acting at heroism. The scene’s emotional weight, coupled with Lacy’s Bogart murmuring approval, transforms parody into poignant meta-commentary on cinematic idealism versus human frailty.

The film’s boldest stroke is its literal resurrection of Humphrey Bogart, achieved not through AI (unthinkable in 1972) but via Jerry Lacy’s meticulous impersonation. Lacy, who had honed the role in the Broadway production, replicates Bogart’s raspy cadence, hunched posture, and sardonic smirk with eerie precision. Modern audiences, accustomed to digital necromancy, may underestimate the skill required to evoke an icon without veering into caricature. Lacy’s Bogart is less a ghost than a manifestation of Felix’s insecurities—a mentor critiquing his protégé’s lack of “guts.” The decision to open the film with an extended clip from Casablanca risks overshadowing Lacy, but instead frames the actor’s performance as a respectful homage, bridging the gap between imitation and artistry.

Allen’s chemistry with Diane Keaton—then a relative newcomer—anchors the film’s emotional core. Their scenes together crackle with an easy, improvisational rhythm, especially when they deal with the the awkwardness of mutual attraction. Keaton’s Linda is neither manic pixie dream girl nor passive trophy wife; her quiet exasperation and warmth make Felix’s infatuation believable. Tony Roberts, a stalwart of Allen’s early films, provides reliable comic relief as the oblivious Dick, though the role demands little beyond affable cluelessness. For Allen and Keaton, this collaboration planted the seeds for one of cinema’s most fruitful partnerships, culminating in Annie Hall and Manhattan. Their off-screen romance, though short-lived, infuses their on-screen dynamic with palpable authenticity.

The flaws of Play It Again, Sam —the wobbly first act, underdeveloped supporting characters—are undeniable, yet they pale beside its triumphs. As a snapshot of Allen’s evolution, it captures the moment his juvenilia began giving way to deeper introspection. As a bridge between Hollywood eras, it revels in the friction between Bogart’s mythic masculinity and Allen’s anxious modernity. Above all, the film is a testament to cinema’s unique power to resurrect the past, not through technology, but through storytelling alchemy. Imperfect, yes—but in its best moments, Play It Again, Sam achieves something timeless: it makes us believe, if only for a scene, that Bogart’s ghost might just approve.

RATING: 6/10 (++)

Blog in Croatian https://draxblog.com
Blog in English https://draxreview.wordpress.com/
InLeo blog https://inleo.io/@drax.leo

Hiveonboard: https://hiveonboard.com?ref=drax
InLeo: https://inleo.io/signup?referral=drax.leo
Rising Star game: https://www.risingstargame.com?referrer=drax
1Inch: https://1inch.exchange/#/r/0x83823d8CCB74F828148258BB4457642124b1328e

BTC donations: 1EWxiMiP6iiG9rger3NuUSd6HByaxQWafG
ETH donations: 0xB305F144323b99e6f8b1d66f5D7DE78B498C32A7
BCH donations: qpvxw0jax79lhmvlgcldkzpqanf03r9cjv8y6gtmk9