Review: Manhattan Murder Mystery

Woody Allen and Diane Keaton star as a married couple, and the latter comes to suspect that their neighbour (Jerry Adler) has murdered his wife. Woody wants her to keep out of it, they hardly knew the couple anyway, but Keaton can’t let things lie, even as the cause of death is ruled a heart attack. Their mutual friend (Alan Alda) humours Keaton, though, and pretty soon even Woody’s poker-playing work colleague Anjelica Huston is joining in on the sleuthing, too. Look for Zach Braff as Woody and Keaton’s son. He looked the same in 1993 that he would a decade later on TV’s “Scrubs” (Or now, for that matter).

 

Although popular with audiences and critics, I have to say I found this 1993 Woody Allen (“Annie Hall”, “Manhattan”, “Hollywood Ending”) comic murder-mystery practically unbearable. Co-written by Marshall Brickman (“Sleeper”, “Annie Hall”, “Manhattan”), it’s boring beyond belief and both Woody and Diane Keaton play the dullest couple in cinematic history. Why was any of this filmed? Why should I care about such whiny and neurotic people? This reunion of Woody and Keaton almost taints the memory of “Annie Hall”. Their conversations are tedious and never-ending, and Keaton’s obsession with a murder that may or may not have even happened played to me like a boring person trying to imagine some excitement for her otherwise uneventful life. It’s the same problem I had with “Date Night”, really as they stick their noses in other people’s business to compensate for their own deficiencies and inadequacies. The Keaton character is just pathetic, and even more annoying than Woody.

 

But the worst thing is the mystery itself. It takes forever for the audience to be given any indication whatsoever that a murder has even taken place. For the longest time, we’re still of the belief that a heart attack is the most likely cause of death, and don’t understand what the hell Keaton’s problem is. Finally, after an hour of endless conversations and nothing of substance, we at least get the impression that something weird and sinister is going on, but still not enough to say a murder has taken place.

 

Oh well, at least it’s set in Manhattan, so Woody got that part right, but even the scenery is dull here, which is a surprise from Woody. There’s also not one single laugh in the film, and an irritating beyond belief jazz soundtrack that just doesn’t fit. Just because you like jazz, Woody doesn’t mean it’s appropriate in every frigging film, fella.

 

It’s also moronically repetitive, too: Keaton snoops, informs Woody, he nebbishly panics and kvetches. Rinse and repeat. I did like the cute cinephile finale, though, with the mirrors and Orson Welles movie showing. Normally that kind of thing might seem pretentious- and it is- but being a cinephile myself, I dug it.

 

With two unbearable protagonists and an appalling murder mystery, it’s a bust. Good work by Alan Alda, Jerry Adler (who is nicely mysterious- unlike the film itself), and Anjelica Huston can’t save it. One of Woody’s worst, for sure. It’s not clever, it’s not funny, and it’s not interesting. Gimme a film about Alda and Huston, without a murder-mystery, and you’ve got something much more worthwhile.

 

Rating: D+