What's With Baum? by Woody Allen

I've been a fan of Woody Allen's films, books, and comedy records for most of my life. I've read Without Feathers, Getting Even, and Side Effects. I've seen many of the films multiple times. So when I stumbled across What's With Baum? in a bookstore and discovered that it was Allen's first novel, curiosity got the better of me.

Let's get the obvious question out of the way. Whenever a celebrity writes a novel, especially one with as much baggage as Woody Allen, there are two questions that need answering.

First: would this book have been published if it weren't written by Woody Allen?

I think the answer is yes.

Second: can you forget that Woody Allen wrote it while you're reading?

Hmmm…that's a much harder question.

The novel follows Asher Baum, a neurotic New York writer whose career is fading, whose marriage is shaky, and whose anxieties seem to multiply by the page. In other words, Allen is writing about territory he knows well. Baum is essentially a cousin to many of Allen's cinematic protagonists: intellectual, self-absorbed, funny, insecure, and perpetually worried about mortality.

And yet… the book works.

The writing is sharp, the pacing is brisk, and Allen's gift for comic observation remains intact. The novel is packed with funny lines, clever insights, and the sort of neurotic internal monologues that have fueled his work for decades. In fact, I kept hearing Woody’s voice and his mannerisms in every word Baum said. And, I found myself reading far later into the evening than I intended because I genuinely wanted to know what happened next.

The bad news (if you want to call it that) is that this feels very much like a Woody Allen film in novel form. There isn't much here that longtime Allen fans haven't encountered before. The same obsessions are present: death, meaninglessness, jealousy, aging, sex, regret, and the maddening impossibility of human relationships. I shouldn’t call it bad news; for a fan of his work, it was basically comfort food.  But I can see how others might be tired of the schtick already.

And then there's the unavoidable discomfort. There were moments, particularly when Baum becomes involved with a much younger woman, when I couldn't entirely separate the character from the author. My brain kept whispering, “Yikes. Woody Allen wrote that line.”

Still, I’m not gonna lie. I found the novel surprisingly engaging. Beneath the humor is a thoughtful exploration of envy, failure, and self-sabotage. Baum's greatest enemy isn't society, fate, or even his rivals. It's his own pettiness.

In the end, I enjoyed it quite a bit. It's a good novel. It's just a shame that discussing it requires so many footnotes.