Woody Allen has impeccable taste in music. And good thing, because otherwise there would be nothing redeeming about September.<br /><br />This film was as limp and lifeless as they come. I can recall few films in which I was so conscious I was watching actors reciting dialogue--and bad dialogue, and bored actors. This film felt like a rehearsal. It felt like the FIRST rehearsal, the cast assembled together for the very first time, maybe at like 5AM on a Monday morning, and everybody was tired and cranky and didn't really want to be there, and they knew the script sucked anyway so there was no point in even trying. Certainly, these were the worst performances I've ever seen by Mia Farrow and Dianne Wiest. The script felt like a rough first draft--of an artless hack. I can't believe September was a Woody. Too bad he didn't have a real-life Cheech to help him out with this one.<br /><br />And, worst of all, the film was staged entirely within one house, with curtains drawn against the world. Cinematographer Carlo Di Palma did his best to make the house look interesting, but that yellow and orange lighting scheme became oppressive after a while, and I was longing to step outside and see some daylight. I probably should have--in real life--and turned this piece of garbage off. Unfortunately, I have an obsessive-compulsive sickness that forces me to finish any movie I've started. Mercifully, September ran only 82 minutes, but they were hard, mind-numbing minutes.<br /><br />The worst Woody Allen film. 4/10<br /><br />