Didactic illustration, by Woody Allen, of the role of luck in human affairs, taking as its central metaphor a ball clipping the top of the net in a game of tennis, freeze-framed indecisively in midair. The story traces the progress of a lowborn Irish tennis pro (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers), not quite good enough to have held his own on the circuit with Sampras and Agassi, interested now in life's finer things -- literature, art, opera -- and wanting to "do something special, you know, make a contribution," but led by happenstance into the British upper class, into the affections of a sweet-natured, uncomplicated heiress (Emily Mortimer), into the family business, into a pact, if you will, with Mephistopheles, and into a bit of a sticky wicket. His prospective brother-in-law's American fiancée (Scarlett Johansson), a struggling actress but an accomplished flirt, has a certain something that his own ladylove lacks: "Did anyone ever tell you you have extremely sensual lips?" And Jonathan Rhys-Meyers should know! These two pairs of lips appear destined to meet. The developments to this point and beyond unfold organically, efficiently, covering a lot of ground swiftly yet without hurry, in the craftsmanly manner of Golden Age Hollywood. They hold, even if they do not tightly grip, your interest. At a full two hours, however, this is the longest Woody Allen film to date, and when it eventually enters the realm of a thriller, it starts to slow down, to drag, to grind. The British milieu and accents serve as an effective, a brilliant disguise for Allen's familiar rhythms and idioms, yet you can't help but wonder how well the film would hold your interest if you stumbled into it without knowing what -- or rather, whom -- you were seeing. For all its polish and proficiency, the film depends desperately on your awareness that it's Allen and your search for substantiation. For recognition. It's a sure cure for your increasing boredom with him. Matthew Goode, Brian Cox, Penelope Wilton. (2005) — Duncan Shepherd