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Sunday 7 September 2008

Oh, George, how could you?

Leatherheads
PG, Nationwide

Leatherheads is George Clooney’s third outing as a director and the first in which he plays a starring role, and it must have looked good on paper, just as anything with George Clooney’s name attached to it probably looks good on paper. A musical based on the plumbing-supplies aisle in B&Q would probably look good with George Clooney’s name attached to it, plus top Hollywood actresses would likely vie to play the U-bend or plunger. But there are dangers, I suppose, in not having to fight to get projects made and just how dangerous this can be is frighteningly evident in Leatherheads, a slovenly, timid, strenuously studied movie that takes forever to get nowhere, uninterestingly.

This will come as a blow to those who are Clooney fans, as I am. Clooney is the dish of dishes; an über dish. Although constantly voted ‘The Sexiest Man Alive’ — which has to be better than ‘The Sexiest Man Dead’ — he has always appeared at ease both with his fame and himself. But here he seems, finally, to have fallen for his own press; his own reflection in the water, and ‘splash’! That is George falling in, by the way. Should I save him? I would if I could, because I am a good person; so good, in fact, that I would almost certainly insist on giving him mouth-to-mouth, whether he needed it or not.

Leatherheads is a romantic comedy set in the 1920s against the backdrop of America’s nascent professional football league. (Yes, you have every right to start yawning at the back.) Here, Clooney plays Dodge Connelly, a charming (would you believe?), somewhat over-the-hill footballer determined to steer his team from bar-room brawls to packed stadiums. Anyway, to cut a long story short, which you should thank me profusely for, through various shenanigans he manages to recruit Carter Rutherford (John Krasinski) to the team, a tiptop player who is also a war hero, or so he says. But is he really? Lexie Littleton (Renée Zellweger), a hot-shot, spitfire news reporter is determined to find out. America, apparently, cares, even though it didn’t matter a fig to me and probably won’t to you.

More articles from: Deborah Ross | this section

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