This might be said to bear the same relationship to Woody Allen’s other comedies that September bears to his other dramas—which is to say it’s somewhere near the bottom. In its opening moments it’s sufficiently self-serving to take a swipe at Allen’s ex-wife for her desire to adopt children, and when the Allen hero decides to track down the mother of his adopted son, who proves to be (surprise, surprise) a bimbo prostitute (Mira Sorvino) with a heart of gold, Allen unloads all his usual patronizing contempt for and middle-class “wisdom” about his own working-class origins. Here his awe of and nervousness about high art translate into a Greek chorus complete with ancient amphitheater speaking in New York vernacular that only made me hunger for the more honest vulgarity of Mel Brooks. I heard a lot of laughter around me when I previewed this in Toronto, and something tells me that if Allen decided to portray himself as a thoughtful ax murderer, as long as all his victims lived in Brooklyn his affectionate consistency would probably remain intact. With Helena Bonham Carter, Olympia Dukakis, Claire Bloom, Jack Warden, Michael Rapaport, David Ogden Stiers, Peter Weller, and F. Murray Abraham.