The aptly named "Harry Block" (Woody Allen) is a seriously lapsed Jewish writer suffering from constipation of the typewriter. Adding to his woes is a nervousness about an impending honour from his alma mater (from where he was unceremoniously expelled) and the fact that his personal life makes Henry VIII's look like "Bertie and Elizabeth". Of course, "Harry" is seeing a therapist (Robert Harper) and with just a day before his conferment, he realises that his entire shambolic life is a result of his inability to fall in love. He likes women, he likes sex but he doesn't really like commitment, wanting always to treat a relationship like something he can buy in, or return to, Walmart. That's the basis of this story of a flawed individual that using a series of statically directed sit-com style scenarios takes us thorough twenty-four hours in the manic life of the shallow and unlikeable individual. I have never really been a fan of Woody Allen and this did nothing to change that. Granted his writing is quick fired and his observations potent at times, but his sense of humour is just too crass for me. There's nothing at all subtle about it, no cleverness - and the opening scenes of this set a scene for what I thought became increasingly puerile and predictable. A sort of slickly-delivered linguistic slapstick. Vulgar can be fun, but not when it's got some pseudo-intellectual underpinning about cause and effect of an human behaviour that becomes more and more contrived to fit the narrative the auteur wants to deliver. Are the jump cuts just there to divert our attention from the dwindling characterisations and increasing soapy melodrama? He doesn't imbue his character with anything I could care about, and though I did think Judy Davis and a cast of many reliable faces did their best to shore it all up, in the end it's very appropriately titled - it just doesn't happen quite quickly enough.
