I buried Woody Allen tonight. The first 90 minutes of Match Point were entirely repetitive of his previous films,  with the exception the location:  the film takes place in London and not Manhattan. I wished I had stayed home and not wasted time on such a trivial movie. Allen’s final mission in life seems to be to prove right Freud’s theory that human beings are entirely controlled by their desires for sex. Allen has devolved into a puppeteer, incapable of creating human characters. But as an artist he has become sterile. His creative impotence is painful to watch. The last thirty minutes of the film relieve the pain only because Allen let’s a murder take place and you want to know whether the murderer gets away with the crime. If a young film student had made this movie, the critics would have buried the person’s career before it ever started. It obviously pays to have a large loyal audience, but I am no longer part of it.