When it comes to living the good life, very few know better than Alice Tate (Mia Farrow), who has spent the last two decades as a spoiled New York City housewife and mother, spending her days gallivanting through the Upper West Side and shopping at any boutique that takes her fancy, and undergoing any range of medical and cosmetic procedures that helps her pass the time and satiates her perpetual need for retail therapy. However, her life isn’t nearly as perfect as it seems – she has not only fallen out of love with her husband, Doug (William Hurt), which occurs concurrently with her introduction to Joe (Joe Mantegna), an enigmatic jazz musician who catches her attention, and launches her into a spiral of existential despair since she has fallen madly in love with a man she barely knows, mainly because he represents everything her husband does not. In the meantime, she also has to endure judgment from a variety of other people, such as her radically successful sister (Blythe Danner), and a small gaggle of friends that claim to be loyal to the insecure Alice, but prove to be privately entertained by her quandaries. In an effort to relieve what she believes is a bad back, she takes the advice of a colleague and seeks out Dr Yang (Keye Luke), a mysterious medical practitioner and therapist nestled deep within Chinatown, who is apparently an expert at diagnosing and treating any illness. Alice expects acupuncture, or some prescription medication – nothing could have prepared her for what she was going to get instead, since the urban shaman gives her access to an array of herbs with psychomagical properties, allowing her to change her personality, become invisible and even cause anyone to fall in love with her – and armed with these new powers, Alice is given a new lease on life: but does she actually want to face the consequences that come with it?

Despite being a wildly original director in his own right, who has created a distinct style over the course of his career, Woody Allen has never been afraid to make his literary and cinematic influences clear, particularly in the years after he made a series of acclaimed but otherwise simplistic broad comedies. Allen is one of the rare comedic voices who is often better when he is working in more dramatic material, as made evident by his numerous homages to Federico Fellini. More commonly associated with this era in Allen’s career is his 8½ homage, Stardust Memories (which joins a long lineage of films that take inspiration from the idea of an artist reflecting on his past, and his relationship with a variety of people over time)- but more interesting is Alice, is his tribute to Juliet of the Spirits, taking some of the underlying narrative concepts and transposing them into contemporary New York City, which makes for a riveting, fascinating character study that is one of the esteemed director’s most underpraised efforts, a simple but effective drama with broad overtures of fantasy and romantic comedy that blur together to create a film that quite literally enchants the viewer and transports us into a wonderfully magical version of cinema’s favourite city. Alice has barely been given the praise it deserves – it received adulation for the terrific work being done by the incredible Mia Farrow (who is at her very best here, perhaps giving the best performance of her career with Allen) – but it is mostly ignored outside of this, functioning as little more than a footnote in one of cinema’s most prolific careers – but like many of his more unheralded films from this era, there is some value in revisiting it, and seeing just how remarkable a story Allen could weave when the material is strong and the dedication is present.

It’s an iconic image in Allen’s career – the sight of Farrow, wearing a quaint red hat and making her way through the treacherous streets of upper-class Manhattan, has made quite an impression, even if the film itself doesn’t always live up to such potential in terms of being remembered. Without Farrow, there quite simply isn’t a film like Alice, since this wasn’t only a film written specifically to capitalize on the actress’ very distinct, compelling talents, but also a film that thrives on the intricate work that she does in bringing the character to life. Farrow is often considered more of a symbol than a great actress – someone who gave stunning performances in a range of iconic films, but isn’t always remembered as being the best part of them, normally being overshadowed by a co-star, or even the director themselves (one can easily think of her collaborations with Allen, where his work is always the primary component that tends to be remembered, whether it’s his acting, writing or directing of the piece). Alice is an outlier – not only is this is a chance for Farrow to prove that she can command the screen almost entirely on her own, much in the same way Allen did with Another Woman two years prior (a film that is almost a spiritual sibling to this film in how it focuses on a character exploring her own mind and revisiting the past as a means to understand the present), but also the opportunity for her to play a character that doesn’t depend on anything other than her own distinct individuality, which is very much one of the elements of Farrow’s career that has made her such an enigmatic performer – it may have kept her away from reaching the heights of some of her contemporaries, but still gave her a comfortable place in the canon of fascinating screen stars from her generation.

Farrow’s performance does drive most of Alice, but it’s how Allen seamlessly blends her work with the overriding theoretical framework that makes it such a compelling film. Fellini may have been a director whose work continues to be an acquired taste (particularly in the modern era, where his brand of excess isn’t always compatible with the movement towards more simple storytelling techniques), but his films did often carry a timeless quality that not only made them enduring decades later, but are malleable enough to allow for various adaptations and homages to come into existence. There isn’t very much grounds to do a deep comparison between Alice and Juliet of the Spirits, since they’re very different films that only share a superficial series of themes that each director adapts to his own needs – but there is still merit in looking at how Allen seamlessly employs his style with that of his cinematic inspiration. Alice has all the trimmings of a classic Allen film – exceptional writing, fantastic performances (and the cast of this film is tremendous), and the wonderfully exuberant neuroses that makes it so enduring, even if it can be vaguely infuriating at times, which is entirely by design. Add to this Fellini’s peculiar brand of magical realism, where the boundaries between truth and fiction are blurred with a delicate touch that doesn’t often receive the praise it deserves, and you have a fascinating experiment. For many, the concept of Allen directing a fantasy film may be bewildering in theory – but as Alice proves, it can easily be done, especially when it is hailing from a filmmaker whose dedication to each of his projects (at least at that point in his career), was amongst his most notable strengths.

Alice is undeniably a more minor work in Allen’s career, and regardless of how much effusive praise we give it in retrospect, it’s unlikely to ever infiltrate the upper echelons of his filmography, which is already filled with iconic films, making any attempt to reappraise this as a forgotten masterpiece somewhat redundant. Instead, we can break this film down into a variety of components, whether it be strong writing, the marvellous leading performance given by Mia Farrow, or the scene-stealing work being done by the supporting cast (kudos must be given to Keye Luke for turning what could’ve very easily been a thinly-veiled stereotype into a very compelling character, and the wonderful work being done by the tragically underrated Joe Mantegna), there is something very special about the film. It may sometimes feel somewhat tedious – after all, it only reaches its stride midway through, and the resolution is impactful but far too brief. Yet, there’s a joie de vivre that persists throughout the film, keeping it fresh and exciting, even when it is at its most derivative. It’s by no means Allen’s best film (occupying a space more towards the middle of his filmography), and will more likely be mostly of interest to those dedicated to filling in the gaps in his career – but taken for what it is (and made all the more worthwhile for the performance being given by Farrow), Alice is a triumph that sees Allen playing in an undeniably minor, but no less resounding, key.