Movie Review

'Wimbledon:' Not really a tennis movie

By Kamakshi Tandon, Special to TennisReporters.net

Think of it as Goran Ivanisevic meets Tim Henman meets some combination of Jimmy & Chrissy/ Chrissy & John/Steffi & Andre/ Lleyton & Kim.

Perhaps that, in itself, explains the relative poverty of literature and film based around tennis – given what happens in reality, who would want to try and come up with fiction?

For anyone who does, the pressure is on. The lack of a definitive "tennis movie" means that each rare offering in the theatres is scrutinized for the possibility that it, finally, might be the one. And this phenomenon will continue whenever the next one comes out too, for as a definitive tennis movie goes, "Wimbledon" isn't it. This isn't a tennis movie as much as it is a tennis-themed one.

That won't be late breaking news for those familiar with the source. The producers count "Four Weddings and a Funeral" and "Notting Hill" in their oeuvre, and knowing that Hugh Grant was originally slated for the leading role leaves no doubt about which cutter the "Wimbledon" cookie comes from.

Still, it does also mean that it's not an altogether bad film. As starring actor Paul Bettany says, "Go along in the right frame of mind and you'll love it." But clearly, this is not a movie designed to be scrutinized closely. So let's scrutinize it closely.

THE ho-hum PLOT
The tried-and-tested Brit-flick formula is followed to a tee in this latest version, right from the awkward Freudian slip in the first conversation down to the extraneous content in the final scenes. As a result, a slight staleness permeates the plot and the writing is something that not even the fresh setting can entirely offset.

The premise is straightforward: British player Peter Colt (Paul Bettany), once ranked No. 11 but now down to No. 119, is playing his last Wimbledon as a largely forgotten wildcard when his game is re-energized by a developing romance with rising American Lizzie Bradbury (Kirsten Dunst), who is apparently expected to win the event despite playing it for the first time.

As always with this brand of romantic comedies, the supporting cast of characters are inevitably all "characters" – Bradbury's father/coach (Sam Neill), the philosophical German who happens to be Colt's best friend on the circuit (Nikolas Coster-Waldau), a stereotypical agent whose cell phone goes off in the middle of a match (Jon Favreau). But their usual dilution of the main plot is more limited in this particular outing, partly because tennis is stranger than fiction. The 'tennis dad' is thus unrealistically tame compared to some of his real-life counterparts, failing to dance on the commentary boxes, scream about the price of fish, or even get jailed for tax evasion.

It's on this sort of point that the audiences will diverge. While the romantic comedy portion goes down as easily as greasy popcorn, the tennis element can be in light or shadow depending on the viewer's familiarity with the game. Take, for example, the reaction during Colt's second-round match with a Roland Garros champion named Ivan Dragomir (Murphy Jensen). The mind of the non-tennis fan, while hard to penetrate, probably runs along the lines of: "Hmm. He doesn't look French. … Is she going to come watch this match? … I guess he's got to win this one, otherwise it's going to be a pretty short movie. … How many matches are there, anyway?"

THERE IS SOME TENNIS HERE
Knowing tennis, however, means the inner monologue is quite different. "Hey, Murphy Jensen. 'Murphy Jensen, French Open champion', ho ho ho. (Doubles doesn't count.). … Plain shirt? Does this mean that the guy who just won Roland Garros doesn't have a clothing sponsor? Even Guga had a clothing sponsor in 1997. … 'Dragomir' – wonder if he's supposed to be related to Ruxandra? Nah, he doesn't look Romanian."

Looking at the film from this (tennis) point of view, two opportunities are missed. One, relatively minor, lies in the failure to pack the background with esoteric references to the real-life pro tours. A few good look-alikes, a few classic quotes uttered here and there ("No one beats Peter Colt 17 times in a row" is a rip-off of Vitas Gerulaitis's quip) just to provide a few additional jolts of recognition. Nevertheless, there are a few nicely done attempts to capture some of the flavor overtly, such as the commentary voiceovers during the match play. These are so well-mimicked that it's hard to tell whether having John McEnroe (playing himself) call the former No. 11 a "journeyman" is a conscious lampoon or not. Of course, there's also some comedy in the errors. A semifinal (featuring a Brit to boot) is played on Court 2. The incredulity over a 144-mph serve is already outdated. Colt's childhood bedroom has only posters of WTA players. There's no fourth round. The 'Lipton' gets a mention. A player attempts a between-the-legs shot on match point. And don't miss the lushness of the grass on finals day (Eddie Seaward, eat your heart out).

The other missed opportunity comes in the depiction of the matches themselves. The running dialogue inside the player's mind is a cute insight into the mental side of playing, but the physical element is sorely lacking. The camera angles and effects available to filmmakers far outstrip those of an ordinary sports telecast, and are ideal for bringing out the full performing art involved in the act of playing tennis. In particular, there are two things that lose their full impact when tennis is seen on television: the movement of the players and the spin of the ball. But, sadly, neither is fully brought out in this film; the players' frequently look awkward hitting their shots, and the unnatural arc and acceleration of the computer-generated ball is niggling to the experienced eye. Contrast this with the sheer visual impact of Lleyton Hewitt's fist pump, as seen with CBS' super-slow-motion 'Swing Vision' during the US Open, and it dramatically illustrates the inadequacy of the film's cinematography.

"I have a new theory about tennis: You hit the ball back as hard, as deep, and as often as possible."

Does this mean that "Wimbledon" has nothing to add to tennis lore? Not quite. The scene shots are suitably evocative, having been filmed at this year's event, and a few snippets of dialogue do strike a chord. The line most quoted in reviews may be Dust's character Lizzie Bradbury mouthing the cliché, "love means nothing in tennis, zero," but the most powerful line in the film is in fact Bradbury saying, "This is why I stopped having friends in tennis. It's too hard to kill them on the court … you're being asked to close him [your best friend] out in the third round of Wimbledon … that "is killing him."

Long after being murdered in the third round, this self-same friend follows the path of many a tennis philosopher, reaching the end of his learning by arriving back at the beginning: "I have a new theory about tennis," he says towards the end of the film, soft irony around the corners of his mouth. "You hit the ball back as hard, as deep, and as often as possible."

'An Englishman in the final!'
Rather unexpectedly, the screenplay also has a perfect snapshot of the vividly personal yet deeply abstract British desire for a homegrown champion, capturing it in all its uneasy insecurity. "An Englishman in the final!" a hotel worker tells Colt. "If you could win the cup, we'd be so proud. And I don't even like tennis!"

But its most subtle contribution may be this: if it can make even a small fraction of the mainstream audience (the film has taken in $12 million this far) understand, just for a little while, what it's like to really want someone to win a Wimbledon match. Well, that's something in itself.

As for whether the film is one to go watch, it's best to take the attitude of Lyndon Johnson ("He may be an SOB, but he's "our" SOB"); it may be a middling film, but it's a middling tennis film, so you just have to go see what it's like.

The question of whether it does its subject justice is another matter. "Of all the evocative names in sport – St. Andrews … Madison Square Garden … Ascot … Le Mans … Yankee Stadium," wrote New Yorker sportswriter Herbert Warren Wind, "I do not believe that any holds more significance or rings the bells of memory more loudly or clearly than Wimbledon."

"Wimbledon," then, is a title still in search of a fitting movie.