Written and directed by Woody Allen

Starring: Scarlett Johansson, Woody Allen, Hugh Jackman and Ian McShane

96 minutes

Here’s the scoop: Woody’s previous film was his best in almost a decade. Now it’s back to business as usual in the stale rehash of past obsessions.

His newest picture has a lot in common with Match Point. They both are set in London, star Scarlett Johansson and don’t elicit so much as a chuckle. The only problem being Scoop is supposed to be a comedy.

Diane Jacobs’ “… but we need the eggs” remains the sharpest analysis of Woody’s career to date. Ms. Jacobs was the first to point out the importance of magic in several of his films. Allen must have believed his own good press, for this is the second feature in which he takes on the role of a professional magician.

The other flagrant nod to the past is his characterization of Sid Waterman, the great Splendini. It’s as if a jade scorpion placed a curse on West End Danny Rose. Sid is Danny, 20 years older, a little more successful and a whole lot less funny.

Into his disappearing box walks Sondra Pransky (Johansson). She’s an American journalism student/dental hygienist about to be given a story that any seasoned reporter would die for. In fact, one did.

Like many of Allen’s films, Scoop commences with a major event, in this case the funeral of revered British journalist Joe Strombel (Ian McShane). On his boat ride to the beyond, Joe’s attempt to bribe death is met with steely silence. Ghoulish small talk with a co-corpse reveals that she was poisoned after discovering the secret identity of London’s notorious Tarot Card Killer. Joe literally goes overboard and winds up materializing in Splendini’s vanishing act.

Once inside Splendini’s box, Joe’s ghost tells budding scribe Sondra that the killer’s identity is none other than Lord Lyman’s son Peter (Hugh Jackman). After a promising setup, it pretty much becomes Woody-by-numbers after the first cue mark.

Of course, cranky Sid is recruited by Sondra to join her on the hunt for the killer. The thought of Woody crashing British aristocracy is almost as promising as Groucho at the opera. Much of his shtick is tired and labored beyond belief. We all know Woody hates to drive, and seeing him in an ill-fitting automobile ceased being funny ages ago.

A recent tabloid article claimed “Allen’s about ready to use a wood-chipper on actor Wilmer Valderrama” for casting unworthy advances on his “muse.” He may be a chivalrous father figure off-screen (ask Soon-Yi), but when the cameras are rolling, Ms. Johansson’s ditzy bimbo Sondra would have been right at home on “That ’70s Show.”

Cute, stacked and stupid, Sondra is so naïve that she sleeps with a famous film director and fails to get an interview. Thus, she has no problem when it comes to bedding playboy Peter in order to get her story. Eventually, Woody borrows from Hitchcock’s Suspicion, and if you can’t figure out how this one ends by reel two you must be watching through your rearview at a drive-in.

With Woody far too old to play a romantic comic lead, Scarlett dons spectacles (as did John Cusack in Bullets Over Broadway) to play the traditional Allen nebbish character. Perhaps if this came out before Match Point it would be a lot fresher and more tolerable. You get the feeling there was enough film stock left over from Match Point that they decided to stay in London and shoot another picture. If only Woody had fashioned a stronger script.

Long before September arrived, I was already tired of the Bergman knockoffs and saw no future in Allen as a serious filmmaker. It wasn’t until Hannah and Her Sisters and Crimes and Misdemeanors brought about a balance between comedy and drama that I began to bend a little. Match Point was a major step forward in Woody’s career; a brilliantly-structured romantic melodrama that showed major signs of artistic growth. I never thought the day would come that I’d be yearning for a serious film from Woody Allen.

1 star

Written and directed by Michael Mann

Starring: Colin Farrell, Jamie Foxx, Gong Li and Naomie Harris

146 minutes in CinemaScope

Get ready for vice without cinematic virtue in this overlong and under-plotted big-screen blowup of a best-forgotten TV blockbuster.

It’s been almost 20 years since Crockett and Tubbs signed off NBC. Did any of you buy into the hype and roll up the sleeves of your pastel sport coats and affect a perfectly groomed three-day growth?

Having never seen so much as a second of the series, the only thing I associate with the show is Philip Michael Thomas’ legendary ego. He once sported a necklace that read EGOT. Thomas combined the first letters from the words Emmy, Grammy, Oscar and Tony to spell out his password for success. The closest he came was NFAGG. (Not that! I meant Nominated for a Golden Globe, silly.) If you don’t recall seeing Thomas in the past 10 years, think again. He was the guy that sold you a burger and shake at In-n-Out.

This time around, the only thing bigger than the egos is the enormous $125 million budget. Colin Farrell and Jamie Foxx stand around preening for an unwarranted 146 minutes. Not unlike a desperate guy rifling his Rolodex for a favored partner from his past, Michael Mann, the shows originator, basically admits that he’ll fuck anything, including his career and reputation.

Initially there is talk of a gang of white supremacists, but that quickly gives way to what the show was famous for: catching drug lords and scoring with the ladies. Either I’m getting old or the sex scenes on display were so tired and unconvincing that I yearned to get back to what little plot there is.

Unlike Thomas, who could have banked on an Oscar as a springboard to feature films, Foxx trades in his statuette for a ticket to a small-screen blow up. Is this really that much better than “Dukes of Hazzard,” another TV turd deemed worthy of a theatrical version? Say what you will, Foxx’s best film remains Booty Call.

Colin Farrell is not without talent, and generally comes off better in a contemporary setting than in a period piece. Both men are given so little to do that one can hardly refer to what they do on screen as performance.

The film has two things going for it. First, nobody at work today can better capture the feeling of a hot, hazy summer night than Michael Mann. My favorite moments in Ali came when watching Will Smith jog at dusk, and in that department the film never disappoints. Second, those craving unintentional laughs won’t leave hungry. Gong Li’s collaborations with Zhang Yimou (The Story of Qui Ju, Raise the Red Lantern) helped herald a rebirth in Chinese cinema. As the Chinese-Cuban wife of a nefarious bad guy, her fractured line readings make Ivana Trump sound like Julie Andrews. Not to come off like a border guard or anything, but if you’re going to star in an American blockbuster the least you can do is approximate the language. Either that or ask the costume designer to sew subtitles on your clothes.

BOMB