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Certainly the drive for ever greater simplicity in one's statements of complex artistic truths is the mark of a maturing artist, as the work of Allen's idol, Bergman, testifies. At the end of Manhattan, making a list of the things and people that make life worth living, Isaac compiles a list of just such glories: Groucho Marx, the second movement of Mozart's "Jupiter" Symphony, Louis Armstrong's recording of Potato Head Blues, Flaubert's A Sentimental Education, Cezanne's still lifes of apples and pears, among others. As it happens, he leaves out one important name, somebody who belongs on anyone's short list of today's essential cultural clarifiers and consolations. That name, of course is Woody Allen.