Match Point

Is this a first for The Woodsman? A film without a single laugh?

There have been others (Interiors, Another Woman, Sweet And Lowdown), but they had depth, while Match Point is purely surface. Presented as a he-did-it, more Highsmith than Christie, it is predictable and implausible at the same time.

Woody Allen is the king of cool when it comes to cliche - he cancelled his subscription years ago. And yet here he does something too clever (and annoying) for his own good. He sets up incidents, such as a dropped cartridge, or being spotted in the wrong place with the wrong girl, that should make significant waves in the plot pool, but (fooled ya!) don't.

His theme is luck. Without it, you're toast. With it, you can get away with murder. Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), a tennis pro, who was once a contender beside Henman and Agassi (pull the other one), hits the jackpot when he is "taken up" by Tom Hewitt's family - nouveau-aristos and as rich as a Goldsmith - because of his love of opera ("You must come to our box at Covent Garden. I insist!")

Allen is surprisingly astute at recognising the "frightfully nice" cadences of English upper-class speech without resorting to parody and is particularly sensitive to what might be considered the arrogance of privilege when, in truth, it is the product of protective evasion, force-fed at public schools to avoid messy emotion, encouraging a naive misconception that life is fair.

Following in the print steps of An American Tragedy and A Place In The Sun, Allen's story writes itself. Tom's sister Chloe (Emily Mortimer) falls madly for Chris who secretly fancies struggling American actress Nola (Scarlett Johansson), who happens to be engaged to Tom (Matthew Goode). Giving up tennis to be groomed for bigger things in one of Mr Hewitt's (Brian Cox) glitteringly successful businesses is no pain for Chris and even the price - marriage to Chloe - is affordable in emotional terms. In his playing days he was known for his composure under fire. Faking wedded bliss proves much harder, but Chloe is so trusting he could tell her the stars are made of diamonds and she would believe him.

His affair with Nola is not as sticky as Body Heat, nor as rampant as The Postman Always Rings Twice - where is that kitchen table? - but it unzips Chris to the point where he takes dangerous risks and if he wasn't entrenched with poshos, who appear blind to the duplicity of others, being so dashed decent, he would have been caught sans trews by some seedy PI with a Cockney accent and a digital camera long before the second hour drags to its close. Allen, meanwhile, is doing his American In London tour, shooting outside the Houses of Parliament, in Pall Mall, Belgravia, Bond Street, Tate Modern, Cartier, Aspreys, Ralph Lauren, the Royal Court, King's Road, et al.

The crime itself, because this is a film, like The Talented Mr Ripley, that centres upon uncivilised acts in civilised surroundings, is hardly credible. Let's just say a 12-bore is a noisy weapon in a confined space. The other problem with Match Point is its inhabitants. The Hewitts are as smug as bugs without showing off. In fact, they suppress their snobbery beneath a veneer of tempered charm and appear generous, well-mannered and discreetly New David. The performances are spotless, particularly Mortimer who captures the vacuous space between desire and hope so perfectly that Chloe might be considered a silly cow when actually she is a caged canary, happily twittering.

Rhys Meyers plays the long game and, like Borg before him, never allows self-control to crack, except briefly at the bad time, which leaves Chris characterless, driven by lust and luck, and you don't care what happens. Johansson wears her hair up most of the time, which accentuates the rough cut of her facial features. Nola is more of an outsider than Chris, an Irishman with a seamless mid-court accent, because her Colorado roots seem abrasive compared to the smooth ease of English understatement.

By setting his "Ripley" amongst these people, there is little but autoyah and gently amusing banter to knock up with. Allen's spiky wit stayed behind in New York. Like the master of suspense, Sir Alfred of Psycho, his later films are beginning to show signs of exhaustion.