I think Woody Allen has finally pulled it off; he's transformed himself into the Jed Clampett of New York's intellectual scene. If Allen's latest movie, "Match Point," accomplishes anything it's to serve as a cautionary tale about the hemophilial effects of cultural inbreeding on talent. The art galleries of Manhattan may not be as far removed from Appalachia as we once thought.

"Match Point" starts out as a nifty little story about the short-circuiting of ambition by lust. Chris Wilton (Jonathon Rhys Meyers) is a hungry young tennis pro in London who stumbles into a fortunate friendship with a very wealthy family. He takes up with the daughter, Chloe (Emily Mortimer), who in turn pressures daddy (Brian Cox) to set him up in the family business. Once married, Chris is on a fast track to a life of riches.

Unfortunately for Chris, he meets Nola (Scarlett Johansson), a struggling American actress. Chris' ambition is overthrown by her beauty and he finds himself facing a tough choice: Stay faithful to his luxurious but staid existence with Chloe or risk it all on a breath-taking affair with Nola. Chris tries for both to calamitous effect.

Nola gets pregnant and looses patience with being his woman on the side. She wants him to keep his promise to leave Chloe but divorce is not an economic sacrifice that Chris is eager to make. Chris needs to get rid of one of the women in his life and his search for a solution turns dark.

This is the stuff that makes for a decent episode of "Law and Order." But Allen wants high art and (give the boy credit) for about five minutes of screen time he succeeds. He bookends his story with two inspired bits of symbolism about the effect of luck on human destiny: The first is a tennis ball hitting the net, determining the outcome of a match, and the second a wedding ring bouncing off a railing that decides the fate of a murderer.

If only - and in the spirit of the Woody Allen School of Script Writing let me say that again "if only" - Allen had the good sense to give this little gem of story telling its moment and let it go, this review would be a happier tale to tell. But like a college freshman trying to pad an English lit essay, he keeps hammering on his cherished theme until you wouldn't mind bouncing a few tennis balls off of his head. Allen seems to think he's dealing with a movie audience that can't grasp subtlety-as if we were a rabble of Adam Sandler fans.

But there are other crimes and misdemeanors that plague "Match Point." Woody Allen has famously narrowed his life experience down to what happens within the walls of art galleries, concert halls and psychiatrist offices - back in the days of "Annie Hall" this high-rise hillbilly existence led to some wry self-satire about his inability to drive a car. Today it's just shrinking his creative gene pool. Allen's characters spend too much time abstracting their self-important lives with analysis and it takes a huge toll on his script. With few exceptions they discuss emotion rather than express it. And the amount of time this movie devotes to chatting its way through plot exposition is enough to make you scream.

I swear, I would have paid twice the admission price just to see Chloe get all excited about opening a Krispy Kreme franchise rather than the umpteenth art gallery to show up in Allen's movies.

Allen's nattering leaves his plot in desperate need of a little heat. To his great good fortune - and ours - Scarlett Johansson comes to the rescue. All sensuality and fire she has exactly what it takes to justify "Match Point's" crime of passion. Johansson demonstrates a feral determination to liberate her character from Allen's fussy script and even manages to soften the wince elicited by Chris' jaw-dropping pick-up line: "Did anyone ever tell you you have very sensuous lips." Woody, please.

Bruce Bulloch can be reached at wseditor@robinsonnews.com