It took Woody Allen his entire career to make a film set outside New York (Matchpoint). Now it seems he can’t get enough of London as he re-teams his co-star with the city. Whereas the former was a dramatic tale about greed and class ambition, Allen returns to comic territory in this absurd tale of would-be journalist hot on the trail of a would-be murderer. The story begins unconvincingly when Sondra meets a famous, recently deceased journalist inside a closet. It’s down-hill from here as this ghost persists in giving her the scoop on a story that could bring down the establishment. Meanwhile the closet’s owner, a lo-rent magician, is swept up in Sondra’s determination to reveal the truth. Posing as Sondra’s father, the pair follows a trail that leads to a dashingly handsome aristocrat who may, or may not, be the Tarot Killer.

Now for the sweet and low-down. Scoop is a messy, ragged blend of occasional humour and Allen on autopilot. Lazy plotting and repetitive minor jokes turns this from the endearing kitsch of old into the rambling of an old man. As he stretches ninety minutes of film from forty minutes of witless script, Allen and Johansson fumble for tone as Scoop slips into a sub-Hitchcock routine. Johannson’s limited range and comic inability is shielded by Allen who blunders through his film to reinforce the fact that he can’t, and never could, act. To say that this is a wretched offering is harsh on the memory of great things past, yet sometimes there’s no fudging the truth as any journalist should appreciate. It’s time for Mr Allen to return home.

// COLIN FRASER