With his last few outings, Allen has shown that he's a shadow of his former creative self, so he's logically picked Biggs to play a shadow of his former self. Biggs doesn't seem comfortable in his role as a neurotic psychoanalyst-dependent joke-writer trying to break up with the quirky, torturing girlfriend (Ricci) he's smitten with. The Woodman shows up as his alter-ego's paranoid, mean-spirited mentor and confidant. Flick is so short on new ideas that the young couple can only agree on their love of Bogie and old jazz records. Ricci spends most of the film walking around her apartment in her underwear, which isn't bad if you can keep the image of Allen leering just off-camera out of your head. If you insist on a Woody Allen movie, make it almost anything else but this mess.