Actually, to give Woody credit, there are moments of inspired comedy and creative writing here, framed as they might inevitably be by whinging, shrieking self-righteous fury on the part of several of the sizeable cast. Many of the nuggets of genius are buried like oysters within a veritable torrent of language (including, unusually, a fair proportion of traditional Anglo-Saxon!) Some might call it self-indulgence, but among the cliches nobody profiles angst-ridden paranoid East Coast intelligensia zeitgeist better, nor ever will. Woody won't change, but he can't be faulted for his conceits.

In honour of Hunter S Thompson, you might almost call Allen's style a variant of Gonzo journalism meets Hollywood - the writer/director playing out his own vivid imagination and holding up a mirror to the audience in the process. Dipping into Harry Block's catalogue of stories which profile his friends, but more usually himself, we have a delightful visit to hell (run by Billy Crystal), a fuzzy Robin Williams (a fate later to be met by Allen's Block himself), a visit by Death and suchlike - homage to Allen's own knockabout early films Bananas, the Sleeper and EYAWTKASBWATA. Sending yourself up is something only a few manage to complete in a career!

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