Okay, here's the deal. Back in med school I took beginning pathology from a professor named Dr. Oliver Odenthahler. As a professor, Dr. "Oh-Oh" was an outstanding ballroom dancer. That is to say, a class with Dr. "Oh-Oh" was one of the worst kinds of punishment known to man. He read his lectures from a dusty notebook, spoke in a gravelly monotone, and was about as interesting as a rusted-out Pinto on blocks. Pathology is one of those subjects that's inherently fascinating, since it's not unlike detective work, nosing out the cause of a challenging symptom. And Dr. "Oh-Oh" managed to turn this inherently fascinating subject into a slow march toward dry toast. My friends and I would try anything we could to stay alert during class, noting the number of times "Oh-Oh" swallowed, counting the tiles on the ceiling, pulling our fingernails out with pliers. Never once did I make it through a class without dozing off.

Friends and neighbors, last night I had a vivid flashback to my days in Dr. "Oh-Oh's" zombie-thon. I'd settled-in to watch a delightful romantic comedy entitled 'til there was you. It had all the potential of a can't-miss idea -- two destined lovers keep missing each other. Unfortunately, like Dr. "Oh-Oh" screwing up pathology, the makers of 'til there was you screwed up a potentially nifty film.

'Til there was you starts off wanting desperately to recreate the charm of While You Were Sleeping. Unfortunately, there's no Sandra Bullock in this movie. The pretty Jeanne Tripplehorn (late of Waterworld) tries her dead-level best to play more than "pretty," and, to her credit, she gives a valiant effort, but, nobody can save a movie with A.W.O.L. direction and a screenplay that's flatter than a 'possum sportin' tire-track tattoos.

Jeanne plays a writer named Gwen Moss, hired to ghostpen the autobiography of former child star Francesca Lafield, played here to the bitchy peak by Sarah Jessica Parker. Francesca is one of those child stars grown up that you here about in reference to mysterious deaths in 'Nam, like Jerry Mathers, or that Life cereal kid who supposedly grew up to be Jeffrey Dahmer or something. She also clutches a handsome architect boyfriend, portrayed by Dylan McDermott.

This whole film operates around a wonderful romantic theory, that there is indeed such a thing as destined love and that you're meant to be with only one true person. But, here's the gimmick: Tripplehorn and McDermott, the two destined valentines, despite both orbiting around Parker, keep not running into one another.

See, this could've been a great romantic comedy. The orchestration of the "near-miss" meetings, the trust in love for its own sake, the wacky has-been actress, this could have been a Carole Lombard-William Powell masterpiece.

Instead, we get a potentially good movie that's been run through a Pla-Doh Fun Factory of Hollywood reengineering. I can hear it now: "How about a Sandra Bullock-sort-of-thing? Maybe a Sleepless in Seattle kinda thing, with a touch of While You Were Sleeping and some L.A. Story....." That kind of studio executive drivel can water down a good idea, like a Saltine in soup. There's a boring secondary plot regarding Francesca's apartment building. Whoever decided this thing needed to become a statement about land development vs. the "wacky residents of an apartment building" should be locked in a 4x8 closet and forced to write the script to the next two Beastmaster films. Use those mindless plot devices in a soap opera where they can be appreciated. Don't cough them up on a promising screenplay 'cause you can't think of anything better. Leave that kind of hack writing to Joe Eszterhas for his next Violent Horn-Dogs tra-la-la.

If there's a warm glow in the black hole of 'til there was you, it's Sarah Jessica Parker. As usual, she delivers a solid, likeable performance. As the spoiled-since-birth Francesca, she's the center of this Cupid's solar system, with the entire plot spinning 'round her. It becomes her unspoken job to choreograph a ballet of sending people in and out of the picture just in time for the other to enter or exit. I gotta believe that Ms. Parker hiked up her pantslegs and marched right through the lackluster direction of limp-along auteur Scott Winant, relying on tips from better days with the likes of Tim Burton, Andrew Bergman and Michael Apted. Winant, whose main directing credit is from TV's "My So-Called Life," apparently just sat back, chewed his ham sandwich, and hoped this movie would spring to life in the editing room. It falls to Parker to be the onscreen pilot, and she flies the honorable flight.

I hate this for Tripplehorn. She's got some talent, and has enough magnetism to jump from nobody to headliner in a mere five films. However, if she keeps bumping into stinky projects like this one, she may have a permanent funk that'll steer her toward the Cinemax set. And po' Dylan McDermott. The extent of his acting chops is to clench his jawbone and give a Duchovny Head Tilt. I yawn in your general direction, sir. After the unholy trilogy of 'til there was you, Destiny Turns on the Radio, and Home for the Holidays, Mr. McD-m-T better pray like a saint that Julia Roberts comes back from the dead for Steel Magnolias II.

If you've seen the trailer for this movie, you've seen every funny part. Consider yourself lucky. I had to watch the whole thing, and near the last reel, I was longing for a lecture from Dr. "Oh-Oh".