Woody Allen (and not Ian McShane) dies at the start of this movie, and for the rest of the picture he appears as his own ghost. In giving an impersonation of his former self he seems to have forgotten how to be funny along with the combination of the lock that opens his incredibly inept plot. To see him dithering and groping through his own childish script is to witness someone in the early stages of senile dementia. "Kids, you raise them, pay their way, bring them up only to have them accuse you of having Alzheimers," his character complains. Well, you said it, Woody, not I. Is nobody at the BBC capable of telling this erstwhile movie talent that he has quite literally lost the plot? His team consulted the set directory, found a few stereotyped upper-class locations, around which he spun a puny one-strand playlet that would look weak on a kindergarten stage, let alone in a BBC-financed feature film by an acclaimed director. If you're looking for laughs, this picture had about as many punch-lines as murders. If you're after suspense, the only thing dangling will be your jaw as you yawn. The music is ripped off from Swan Lake (scene of the crime, nudge, nudge). Ms Theron's romance with the stiff and underwritten juvenile lead is so unconvincing it makes porno movies look well-acted. And as for the star himself, well, the only death in this picture was Woody Allen's acting career.
