Despite a common myth that "serious films" are always dramatic, William Zinsser, in his book "On Writing Well," argues that the most compelling films derive, instead, from comedy.

Woody Allen's new film, "Melinda and Melinda," doesn't really defend Zinsser's point (in as much as it's not a particularly good movie), but does illustrate the general debate: should art be tragic or comic?

Allen's work has reached each extreme — "Sleepers" is Allen's one-lining comedian where "Interiors" is his wit-less intellectual — but his best films embrace both, acknowledging that comedy imbues tragedy and visa versa. This is not one of those films.

In "Melinda and Melinda," we're introduced to two veteran writers listening to an anecdote about a woman crashing a late-night dinner party. Depending on their inclination (one writes tragedies where the other writes comedies), each writer develops their own story, their own Melinda (played in each version by Radha Mitchell).

In the tragic version, Melinda storms into the apartment of her old friend (Chloe Sevigny) and her drunkard husband (Jonny Lee Miller), where relationships deteriorate faster than Melinda can reach for another smoke, or Allen can use another tragic cliché.

Melinda speaks all-too-willingly — and generally, for Allen's work — about affairs, suicide, parenting and violence to her new love (a black musician played by Chiwetel Ejiofor of "Dirty Pretty Things") that the storyline becomes overbearing and underwhelming — tragedy becomes tedium; emotional highpoints become the low-point of interest.

In the less tedious comic version, Melinda overdoses on pills and seeks refuge with her upstairs neighbors, an out-of-work actor (Will Ferrell) and independent filmmaker (Amanda Peet).

Ferrell has about as much success playing the Woody character as Jason Biggs did in 2003's "Anything Else" — his bookish self-deprecation and fumbling over his infatuation (in this case, Melinda) feels out of place, as if good notes are being played to the wrong rhythm.

With the exception of Ejiofor, who maintains a graceful formality seldom seen in films today, Allen's poor casting results in intangible characters. Mitchell's Melinda becomes the idea of a down-and-outer or up-and-comer; Ferrell's character becomes the idea of Woody; Chloe Sevigny's character becomes the idea of a confident New Yorker.

Both of the version's frameworks (especially tragedy) need believability to be effective. Without it, you're left feeling like "Annie Hall's" Alvy Singer admitting, "What do you expect? It's my first play." Now that's tragedy.

Grade: C

This article appeared in The Marquette Tribune on April 14 2005.