This movie is going to start a lot of arguments. On the one hand, it is Allen's most accomplished feat of direction yet. But on the other hand ...

Sandy Bates is an idolized comic-turned-director who is cursed by his own gifts. Steamrollered by his staff -- incompetents to the last man, woman and child -- into attending a weekend retrospective of his work (a vicious parody of Judith Crist's Connecticut film weekends), he finds himself incessantly put upon by fans ("I just adore your movies, especially the earlier funnier ones"), groupies, unemployed actors, and other assorted morons who interrupt even his phone calls with requests for photos, autographs, jobs, charity appearances, sex, or a hearing for some stupendously bad idea for a new movie. In addition, he's trying to get his current lady (Barrault) to leave her husband for him, flirting with a Philharmonic violinist (Harper), and obsessed with has long-lost relationship with the manic-depressive Dorrie (Rampling). Oh yes, the studio wants to change the ending of his latest film.

If you think this all sounds like 8-1/2, forget it. What Allen is after is nothing less than the demolition of the concept of the artist as benefactor to mankind. Bates can no longer contemplate making his popular farces because of his determination that he has to do something about the wretchedness of this planet, but his efforts to do serious works are unsuccessful and barely tolerated. At that, the quality of his work scarcely matters because his audience applauds even his commonplace remark. He's trapped no matter what he does. When he gets a chance to ask a space visitor what he can do for mankind he gets this sage advice: "Make funnier movies."

Well, this movie is funnier than anything Allen has done since Sleeper. It is also his "fastest," with the wild inventions flashing by almost before they can be picked up. Allen by this time is capable of achieving almost any effect he wants, and he has turned churches into hotels and greenhouses into train stations to get exactly the look he wants. But the whole business is expended upon what may be Allen's ultimate exercise in self-flagellation: why is it necessary to portray the entire viewing public as a bunch of doltish boors? And why should Bates worry about what he's going to do for a humanity so patently unworthy of his talents?

No doubt about it: Stardust Memories is a must-see. But that doesn't mean you have to like it. As far as I'm concerned, it's a dazzling display by a master filmmaker that wears out its welcome long before the final credits.