REVIEWED - WIMBLEDON: Tennis is the gimmick of choice in this formulaic misfire from the Four Weddings crowd, writes Donald Clarke
Movies featuring elves and reindeer rarely prosper in July. Christ-torturing spectacles starring Jim Caviezel really only make sense at lambing time. So should we be suspicious of a film about the Wimbledon tennis championships that comes our way in September? We should.
Though this latest romantic comedy from the dread Working Title, recidivist perpetrators of Hugh Grant vehicles since the time of the Corn Laws, will probably do well enough at the box-office, there is the feeling of something barely formed about it. Bits are missing. Other bits seem grafted on. The actors all appear uncomfortable in their roles. The film never sounded like a particularly good idea, but it needn't have been quite so ropey as this.
Paul Bettany plays a declining British player - never a Tim Henman, but once a John Lloyd perhaps - taking one last crack at the title in the autumn of his professional career. As a result of a clerical error that does the Dorchester Hotel's reputation no favours, he stumbles into the room of fiery young star Kirsten Dunst as she is soaping herself in the shower.
"Er, um, ah. I, well, you know," Bettany stutters, edging out the door. Did I mention that the script was originally written with Mr Grant in mind? Later on they meet up again, indulge in some jolly banter and, after fish and chips, hop into bed together.
Or at least we assume that's what happens. One of the many unusual things about Wimbledon is that the romance, such as it is, develops largely off-stage. We see nothing of that first love scene and the two principals do not even get to kiss until 45 minutes into the action.
If the picture has not been severely cut then some very odd thinking indeed has gone into its writing. (The smooch happens, so far as I recall, in the London Eye or on Brighton Beach or atop Stonehenge or at one of the dozen other tourist hot-spots inelegantly wedged into the shooting schedule.)
There is at least one good idea in the script. Tennis players are renowned for their superstitious natures - remember Borg's refusal to shave during the fortnight - and, as he progresses through the tournament, Bettany comes to believe that doing the business with Dunst contributes to his success. His lover's stern father (Sam Neill in the obstacle-to-happiness role) is unmoved.
Half-hearted praise should also be put the way of the special effects boffins who have done a reasonable job of animating the tennis balls' movements about the court. This allows the actors to seem proficient, even if the atmosphere in the stadium never feels sufficiently urgent.
Strangely, one of the picture's biggest problems is that Bettany is a little too much of a proper actor. The Notting Jones's Four Weddings Actually school of film-making requires the squashy, empty presence of somebody like Hugh Grant to maintain the necessary atmosphere of weightless levity.
Bettany, earthy despite his good looks, unhelpfully reminds us that there might just be a real world outside the cinema. These films are specifically intended to ward off such uncomfortable musings.
