Low-gear Woody Allen crime comedy, down a couple of notches from Small-Time Crooks, Manhattan Murder Mystery, Take the Money and Run. It concerns an ace insurance investigator who falls under the spell of a nightclub hypnotist and has no clue that the serial jewel thief he is looking for is himself. If that sounds like a metaphor of self-discovery (no, he doesn't truly hate Helen Hunt, he deep-down loves her), it would be giving the thing too much credit. The investigator in fact spends very little time investigating, but a goodly amount of time trading insults with rival investigators. And while Allen's older and droopier physical form is no less funny, and often more sympathetic, to look at, his delivery of lines is monotonously shrill. Then again, he doesn't have much of value to deliver: desperation and panic may have crept in. The 1940 period, so scrupulously documented in the sets and costumes, adds no flavor to the dialogue, wherein modern anachronisms abound. (The hero is guilty of "opening up" to a woman, making her "uncomfortable.") And the soft, luxurious, peach-toned photography -- by the Chinese master, Zhao Fei, once again -- doesn't create a springy platform for light comedy. It creates something more like a plush overstuffed sofa in which the comedy gets swallowed up. Dan Aykroyd, Charlize Theron, David Ogden Stiers. (2001) — Duncan Shepherd