“Delancey” also holds the appeal of many New York-set films of the 1970s and 1980s: as a snapshot of a city in flux, an accidental documentary of a Gotham that no longer exists. (Full disclosure: I wrote a book about New York City movies, so I have a vested interest in this topic.) Vintage NYC movies bring back memories for residents of things they miss, and show younger viewers and recent transplants what they never had. In the case of “Delancey,” whose focal character Izzy Grossman (Amy Irving) works in a tony uptown bookstore, we peek inside the era’s vibrant literary culture, from bookstore events that look like gallery openings to employees that read from the pages of Interview magazine to confirm what’s hip. But we also spend time with the weirdos and eccentrics of the city; in one memorable sequence, an old woman regales the clientele of a Gray’s Papaya with her a cappella rendition of “Some Enchanted Evening,” and a customer who’s blasting his boombox at the counter quickly shuts it off (the ultimate sign of respect).
Silver and the screenwriter Susan Sandler (adapting her play) aren’t merely using their New York locations as scenery. Within the cozy confines of an opposites-attract romantic comedy is nestled a thorny portrait of gentrification and assimilation. Izzy lives and works on the Upper West Side, in a rent controlled apartment (on the open market, she notes, it would go for — gasp — $1500). But she still frequently takes the train to the Lower East Side to visit her bubbe (played with verve by the Yiddish theater actress Reizl Bozyk), and Silver exploits the visual and textural contrasts between Izzy’s two worlds, one sleek and aspirational, the other earthy and reminiscent of her humble roots. When her bubbe suggests connecting the single Izzy with the local marriage broker, she is horrified: “This is not the way I live,” she insists. “This is a hundred years ago!” And when the broker makes an introduction, Izzy assures the man in question, “I don’t live down here, I live uptown. A million miles from here.”
“This isn’t your style,” he agrees, and he should know. His name is Sam (Peter Riegert), and he owns and operates his family business, a street corner pickle stand. That contrast is another element that makes the picture stand out among its rom-com brethren: that it acknowledges, and grapples with, the question of class. The films of Ephron, Meyers, Woody Allen and their ilk are typically populated solely by the affluent, New Yorkers with fabulous uptown apartments, downtown lofts or spacious homes in the suburbs. That’s the life Izzy has left her neighborhood to pursue, and you can see her inner conflict when she goes to visit Sam at his shop — the smile literally drops from her face as she sees him at work, pickle juice dripping from his hands.
This schism becomes her barrier to happiness, discounting and dismissing the clearly beguiling Sam, a handsome charmer with a twinkle in his eye. And it makes Silver and Sandler’s achievement all the more impressive, because they’re creating a narrative where the protagonist, our figure of sympathy, is (for lack of a better word) a snob. But the filmmakers understand the complex nuances of assimilation, and populate these roles with actors who can personify those qualities without making themselves less appealing or attractive. We can sympathize with Izzy in her struggle, while still cheering on Sam for voicing his frustration when he’s had enough. “You think it’s so small, my world?” he finally demands of her. “You think it’s so provincial? You think it defines me?”
