Clooney's fast-talking Leatherheads fumbles

Clooney's fast-talking Leatherheads fumbles

by Sara Michelle Fetters - SGN A&E Writer When you look back at the great screwball comedies of the 1930s and '40s - films like Some Like it Hot!, Bringing Up Baby, His Girl Friday, The Awful Truth and The Philadelphia Story - they hold one major trait in common (other than the fact a heck of a lot of them starred Cary Grant): Upon their conclusion, the viewer finds themselves nearly as giddy as the protagonists themselves. It is almost as if we have drunk from the same bottle of champagne, the bubbly effervescence of both the comedy and the romance leading to a nearly-drunken stupor so rapturously beguiling you almost don't want it to end. This is not an easy cocktail to copy. Over the years, many filmmakers have tried and, by and large, the majority of them have failed (sometimes miserably). Now George Clooney makes a bold attempt to become the Cary Grant of this generation with his new pigskin screwball comedy Leatherheads, and in all fairness and honesty if anyone was going to take up that icon's mantle it sure as heck would have to be him. But much like so many others before him, the hugely talented Oscar-winning actor-writer-director-producer doesn't quite make the grade; his film only amiably scratching the surface of its potential without ever rising to the miraculously absurdist levels it needs to in order to succeed. It moves in fits and starts and never finds the rhythmic pitter-patter of rapid-fire dialogue and energy it so desperately wants. The pieces are there, the story written by Duncan Brantley and sportswriter Rick Reilly is solid (if a bit restrained), and the sets and costuming are authentically perfect, it's just the final execution that's a bit off. Pity, because Clooney was made for films like this one. He's Jimmy "Dodge" Connelly, a 1925 professional football player and consummate tactician known for bending the rules (or lack thereof) to his own team's personal advantage. This is a role tailor-made for the superstar and he fits into the man's skin like a Depression-era tailored suit. He's glib, silly, suave, stupid, tough, conniving, sexy and, most of all, funny, spitting out his lines like an electric typewriter set for warp speed. As good as Clooney the actor is, however, he's let down by Clooney the director (something I was hoping to never have to say after the instantly classic Good Night, and Good Luck.), the majority of the picture's faults directly traced back to him. The most glaring is the fact the pacing is just all wrong. The film starts out great, maybe even better than great, but after about 20 minutes the momentum begins to waver and slow until by the end the entire thing is sputtering along on nothing more then good-natured fumes. The casting is also off. I love Renée Zellweger, but the acclaimed star of Bridget Jones' Diary and Chicago is all wrong as fast-talking ace Chicago reporter Lexie Littleton. She looks fabulous, her bright red lipstick and wildly imaginative collection of hats fitting the period wonderfully. And yet she never works, the actress unable to emulate the Rosalind Russell or Katherine Hepburn-like spunk required for the part. The lines are good, the zingers flying between her and Clooney should hit their marks, and yet for some reason they seldom (if ever) do. Most of them just fall inexplicably flat, almost as if the actress was so thrilled with herself for saying them she forgot to give them the needed energetic push required for them to connect. Still, I give Leatherheads plenty of props for working so hard to try and make this work. Both Jonathan Pryce (as an oily well-funded manipulator) and The Office star John Krasinski (as a superstar collegiate athlete and war hero with a secret past) have some fine moments, well the cadre of irregular regulars the director uses to fill his cinematic football team are certainly worth their fair share of chuckles. I just wanted more from the project then Clooney and company were able to deliver, the whole enterprise a jovial game of screwball comedy that just doesn't have the conditioning to go the final yards needed to score.