My love for Woody Allen’s work is like his love for his pseudo-daughter-turned-wife, Soon-Yi Previn – it feels good, but publicly it’s not something anyone wants to hear about. And I get it. History is littered with dubious artists who have forced us as readers and viewers to ask the tough questions like, “Where do I draw the line?” and “Was Hitler one miraculous Sundance run short of being able to win me over?” But as much as I’d love for you to think I’m some sort of white knight of...