It stands to reason that if Gene Hackman were to appear in a Woody Allen movie, it would be as “the one who got away.” A man of deep feeling and intensity; neither shy nor reserved, standing as a masculine alternative to cold intellectualism and academic piety. The sort of man who can duck under an overpass with you during a rainstorm, plant a firm, unapologetic kiss on your waiting lips, and stir up any number of emotions thought long buried. He is, frankly, the antithesis of each and every man selected by Marion (Gena Rowlands), the subject of the piece. Where they are detached, calculating, and utterly predictable (even their adultery is strictly by the book), he is spontaneous and heedless of risk. Daring to engage in a love affair that may last a dozen years or merely a long weekend. Wholly unknowable, and stronger for precisely that reason. Hackman, as Larry, is perhaps Woody’s most exhilarating defense of passion as life’s guiding principle.
He appears in but three scenes, but is ultimately the lifeblood of the entire enterprise, and the very man who brings Marion out of her lifelong stupor into the clear day of self-awareness. Having lived cleanly, sanely, and with exacting perfection, she has reached the half-century mark utterly alone. Every moment prior to the events of the film has been an utter sham. Accomplished, financially secure, and brimming with brilliant ideas, she has also managed to alienate everyone in her orbit, including a brother, childhood friend, and a stepdaughter. She’s respected by nearly everyone – even envied – but never truly loved. They go to her for advice, recommendations, even money, but never just to share a laugh. Or a knowing glance. The detachment of her upbringing has brought her to this day. After all, when John Houseman was your father, you never stood a chance.
When we first meet Larry, it is in flashback at a party where Marion and Ken (Ian Holm) have announced their engagement. Larry is trying one last time to convince Marion that she is making the mistake of a lifetime, but she’s steadfast in her delusion. You see, Marion met Ken in the context of an affair, and as the saying goes, how you get ‘em is how you lose ‘em. No surprise she’ll divorce him years later for the exact same offense. Still, Larry persists: “What can I say to change your heart?” The words are important here, as he makes an irrational, emotionally laden plea in contrast to Marion’s dry recitation of common interests, as if she were closing a real estate deal. He’s after a bold experience; she’s looking to sign a contract. “He’s a prig. He’s cold and he’s stuffy,” he adds. Marion noticeably fails to disagree.
He further mocks Marion for how dreadfully dull it all sounds. “It’s all up here,” he snaps, knowing that while they can read German poetry into the night, the passion will remain on the page and not in the bedroom. Ken is so ridiculous that his opening tryst with Marion is at a Holiday Inn, of all places. “Did they take a credit card?”, Larry snorts. Everything just so, scripted and banal. Larry offers more. Much more. She knows it too, which is why she turns him away. She could no more act on impulse than tell a bawdy joke. What would her friends say? What would happen to the parties, the civilized dinners, the nights at the opera? She claims to live for love, when they’ve never inhabited the same universe.
Eventually, through dreams, reflections, and an odd experience with a mysterious pregnant woman (Mia Farrow), Marion begins to understand how her life, seemingly so full of great moments, has been spent entirely in a flight from reality. A retreat from the self. As Ken himself says at one point, “We are both creatures of routine.” It is, after all, the greatest of comforts, the ultimate illusion of permanence. From childhood forward, Marion has sought control; firm and unbending. She has an answer for everything because she already knows the questions. Fact over feeling, because a mathematical formula is irrefutable. If it’s up for debate, you might choose incorrectly. And then comes regret. Our lives are full of it, perhaps defined by it, but we all chase the fantasy that where we are is where we always wanted to be. Marion, through Larry, knows the exact opposite is true.
When Marion is finally able to say at film’s close – “I felt at peace” – we have Larry to thank. Hackman, really. Because even Woody Allen instinctively understood that if you want to fashion a character that could, under almost any circumstance, cause a woman to drop everything and run away to parts unknown – it would be Eugene Allen Hackman. Sure, he’s more symbolic than real, and too often left for the storybooks. He’s the one to inspire the gaze out the window, a slight drizzle lightly tapping at the glass, wine in hand. That thousand yard stare, then a deep breath. Maybe the eyes glisten a bit. If only. Once in a blue moon for most. After 50, daily. There for a moment, then gone forever. We spend our lives asleep, but at least Marion finally woke up.
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