Matchless

Woody Allen's genius is only apparent (and palatable) to me when he's not in front of the camera, at least in anything he's made since the mid-1990s. In other words, he needs to not be wooing an outrageously young and stunning woman who, in some alternate universe I don't believe in, finds a whiny, narcissistic geriatric attractive. When you lose that side of things, he's one of our finest living directors.

To wit: Match Point. Beautifully shot from first moment to last, like watching a slideshow of intimate photographs taken of people who didn't know you were looking. Everyone is slightly uncomfortable, but given the tangled relationships, that works in the movie's favor. And it's refreshing when Allen decides to use the take where they messed up their lines a little, or somebody stuttered, or there's a silence that goes just beyond an intentionally pregnant pause. It made me feel like all the actors came over to my house and rehearsed in my living room, so I got to know them a little better and see how they tick.

The acting is excellent also: Scarlett Johansson is great in everything, and she's officially cornered the contemporary bombshell market. They didn't blend into a sports comedy, but pretty boy Jonathan Hyphenated's bizarre flared-nose ticks are well-suited to the upwardly mobile cad he plays here. Emily Mortimer is awkwardly charming, and I was happy to see her again after recently discovering her in the quiet, sweet Lovely and Amazing. Everyone else is supremely English, and the total effect is tense, riveting, and perfect.

Plus the movie has a really killer poster.

Bravo, Woody! Now just stay away from our nation's daughters—especially your own—and don't get caught on film with your pants down ever again. Nobody wants to see that.