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In the end, a godless universe smiles on Hannah and her extended family. For one couple, like ends up with like; another pair discovers that compromise is the best salve for a seven-year itch. It could be that, at 50, Allen is looking not to accuse his characters, or even to absolve them, but to lay on a blessing. In his Manhattan everyone has his reasons, and almost everyone deserves a happy ending. Dear, dour Mickey gets blessed best, with a wry miracle of regeneration. The barrenness of despair gives way to a hope for continuation of the species. For most American directors--glad-handers and show- boaters--that resolution might seem tentative at best. But for Woody Allen, who finds grim death gargling all around him, isn't it romantic?