September (1987)
Written and directed by Woody Allen

Though it's stagey enough to come off, at times, like high school Chekhov (albeit with top-shelf actors), and it's so indebted to Bergman's Autumn Sonata (among others) as to be almost entirely irrelevant, September is far from "Woody Allen's worst movie," as it is too often cited. To determine Woody Allen's worst movie, write down the titles of his last ten, put them in a hat, and pick one.

Allen actually shot September, hated it, and completely re-shot it with a couple of cast replacements, though if the new version is somehow less oppressive, I really don't want to sit through the unreleased cut. The film takes all of Allen's usual elements – depressed New York neurotics; anguished longing; unfulfilled relationships; vaguely defined but microscopically overanalyzed grief; wrongheaded attempts at love; musty jazz records – and crams them all into a Vermont summer house for a weekend of hand-wringing, embittered drinking, and general unpleasantness that, despite the film's 82-minute running time, feels like at least a full weekend in exactly the place you don't want to be.

Which isn't to say it's bad, but even if you're in the mood to be seriously, seriously serious, the tone is absolutely stifling. The acting is fantastic – Diane Wiest and Elaine Stritch, especially – but the story and dialogue are enough to push anyone to suicide. The unrelieved agony of it all probably accounts for the strong negative criticism of the movie.

Mia Farrow is at her stammeringly-insecure worst/best, and while Sam Waterston is great, I kept expecting him to ask for a mistrial. Perhaps I need to stop watching movies simply because they have actors from "Law & Order."

Review by James Giant-Peache