Trust the Man

The film-makers forge a a rom-com rod for their own backs when they declare this "feels like a modern version" of Woody Allen's Manhattan.

Now, the legendary director hasn't really scored with one of his Big Apple-set comedies recently…so this could be the time for someone else to step in.

Unfortunately, it's unlikely to be writer/director Bart Freundlich. His stab at a sophisticated, urbane comedy featuring bon-mot-spouting Manhattanites comes across as a sort of literate Carry On.

An impressive cast, including his own wife Julianne Moore, as well as Maggie Gyllenhaal and David Duchovny, struggle with misfiring dialogue and a narrative that hurtles downhill like a runaway D-train.

All the Allen devices are in place - yuppie lifestyles in desirable Soho brownstones, frequent visits to the shrink, toe-curlingly embarrassing dinner parties and self-conscious sessions with self-help groups.

But the story of bored married couple-with-kids Moore and Duchovny and their temptations outside the marital home and commitment-phobe Crudup (he reads Camus, you know) and broody girlfriend Gyllenhaal don't entertain - they irritate.

Duchovny's run-in with a sex addict self-help group is excruciating for all the wrong reasons while Crudup's goateed twit of a slacker is just plain unbearable.

It's also rare for a movie to crush dramatic potential out of actresses of the calibre of Moore and Gyllenhaal, although this manages that feat with aplomb.

There's no real sense of emotional connection with these people as they flit around Greenwich Village's chic coffee shops and destination restaurants. It's like being asked to shed a tear for Tara P or Paris Hilton. You just don't.

Don't trust the man. Trust your judgement…and avoid.

Tim Evans