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Normally, I'd say any movie that features Woody Allen as a homocidal maniac is okay in my book, if only Picking Up the Pieces didn't bore you to tears en route to the funny stuff, which consists solely of Allen's spare one-liners. The plot, involving a New Mexico community that rallies around Allen's dead wife's severed hand thanks to its miracle-granting powers, shows a ton of promise, but never delivers. Note to Alfonso Arau: more boobs.
