Why do all of Woody Allen's films arrive in Britain so late? The general answer distributors give is that they don't take much at the box office. But neither does much of the trash released week in, week out, and already past its sellby date when it opens in the West End (if lucky). The Curse of the Jade Scorpion was made two years ago, and Allen has already made two films since, Small Time Crooks and Hollywood Ending. But this parody pastiche is funnier than either.
It's slight, which simply means it doesn't presume to do more than entertain us. It would be perfect lightweight fare for anyone who has OD'd on Christmas blockbusters.
Woody's opted for a return to his Radio Days look - the year is 1940 - and a tribute to the B-picture double-features of those days, plus a sophisticated take on the fast-talking screwball comedies like His Girl Friday and even a comic transposition of Fred McMurray's twotiming office boss from The Apartment. (Actually, that doesn't sound so slight: which proves how artfully it's been packaged.)
Allen plays an insurance company detective in a hat like a wigwam who gets most of his clues from the sort of deaf-dumb-and-blind street beggars who check the figure on a greenback before letting their tongues wag.
But times are a-changing, and he's much harassed by his office's new ball-breaking exec (Helen Hunt) who's dating their married boss (Dan Aykroyd).
Both she and Woody are made involuntary victims of a night-club hypnotist's act, causing them to commit jewel robberies using the office's inside dope.
The wisecracking is fast and, if not furious, often has bite: "Never back on a horse with Parkinson's"; "Germs couldn't live in your bloodstream, it's too cold."
Charlize Theron, throwing a hank of blonde hair over her shoulder like a Veronica Lake peekaboo bang, plays a millionaire's spoilt brat, a party girl who's sold on the big adventure of dating a myopic maggot like Woody just for the thrill of it.
I am not a little surprised by some of my colleagues who profess to take Woody Allen's liaisons with his female stars as serious affairs, to be condemned for lacking "credibility".
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The fun surely lies in the improbably romantic mismatch between this turkeynecked, balding, seven-stone weakling, aged 67, and the women above or below the age of innocence who gravitate his way in the plot.
Even when they give his masculinity a put-down, he can retort, "Don't crack one more joke about my religion." Hey, fellas, it's all in fun. If you want " credibility" wait for George Clooney.
The Curse Of The Jade Scorpion
Cert: cert12A
