Wimbledon

Soft serve: Wimbledon faults on romance, comedy

By Jeannette Catsoulis

"From the people who brought you Notting Hill and Four Weddings and a Funeral!" bray the ads for Wimbledon, hoping to tap into our memories of Hugh and Julia groping each other in soft focus between spurts of disarmingly mushy dialogue. The "people" in question are Working Title Films, and what the ads are careful to omit is that neither Notting Hill's Roger Michell nor Four Weddings' Mike Newell signed on as Wimbledon's director. Just as critically, writer Richard Curtis has been replaced with Adam Brooks (Practical Magic) and the unfortunately named Jennifer Flackett ("Beverly Hills 90210"). In other words, no one who had anything to do with the success of the earlier films has stuck around for Wimbledon. In all likelihood, neither will audiences.

Wimbledon believes itself to be a romantic comedy, a level of delusion comparable to Ashton Kutcher believing Demi Moore wants him for his beautiful mind. Trite, tedious and singularly uninspired, this tale of supposedly mismatched lovers (he's a British softie with one foot in retirement, she's an American spitfire at the top of her game) strands two of our most appealing actors in a flaccid relationship and overly controlled London locations. Paul Bettany plays Peter Colt, a "journeyman veteran" winding down an unremarkable career. Before accepting his fate as director of a private tennis club--and boy toy of its under-occupied, over-stimulated matrons--Peter is taking his final stab at center-court glory.

It's a very limp stab--until Peter catches sight of a naked Lizzie Bradbury (Kirsten Dunst) through the frosted glass of a shower stall. Flirting and frolicking ensue, with some tired courting montages (a woodland stroll, a morning run) that usefully remind foreign audiences of London's many tourist attractions. As the romance blossoms, so does Peter's game; even his mopey voice-over swells with fresh purpose. Lizzie, predictably, has the opposite reaction, losing her competitive focus and indulging in the time-honored tantrum-throwing pioneered by Ilie Nastase and upheld by John McEnroe (who supplies a stiff cameo as himself in the announcer's booth).

Striving for verisimilitude, Wimbledon was filmed at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club during the 2003 championship--the first time this has ever been permitted--and Australian champion Pat Cash was on hand to advise. But the filmmakers know that, for most of us, the sight of a ball plopping back and forth in an otherwise silent stadium is not exactly the height of excitement, so the movie is studded with CGI-enhanced volleys and disconcerting jumps and zooms. But nothing can distract us from the inappropriateness of Bettany's indoor pallor and tense, knobby-kneed gait; the loose-shouldered, rolling movement of a true athlete is very difficult to fake.

As Hugh Grant, about to turn 44, straddles the shaky bridge between Dithering Boyfriend and Dirty Old Man, Bettany seems poised to fill the vacuum (the role of Colt was originally Grant's, but as Dunst is a mere 22 perhaps the pairing looked sleazier than the filmmakers were comfortable with). But Bettany, as good as he is, doesn't have Grant's self-mocking sexiness or helpless charm, and his chemistry with Dunst is more fraternal than lustful. As if aware of this, the camera politely withdraws from any bedroom activity, observing only a couple of tongue-free kisses and sportsmanlike hugs. Nevertheless, Dunst--who's delicious in just about everything despite a chronic aversion to hairstylists--does her best to turn up the heat in a romance whose pilot was never even close to being lit.

Wimbledon was directed by Richard Loncraine, whose previous work--including 1982's Brimstone and Treacle, and The Gathering Storm for HBO--has been considerably darker and more sinister. "I'm not an avid sports fan and I haven't really done that much that could be termed romantic comedy," he confesses in the movie's production notes. Somehow, I believe him.