Mixed Match
There were several clues that Universal's tennis picture Wimbledon would be disappointing: dueling ad campaigns, one emphasizing the sport, the other pitching the romance, three writers and a misleading title, which suggests a sports epic. Director Richard Loncraine, who directed part two of HBO's miniseries Band of Brothers and Albert Finney's Winston Churchill in The Gathering Storm, tries to pull it all together and achieve athletic victory and romantic love at once.
At times, Loncraine comes close. In the most affecting scene, championship Wimbledon contenders and lovers Kirsten Dunst and Paul Bettany share an intimate moment on an abandoned tennis court where Bettany's aging pro first learned to swing the racquet. Under the starry skies, Loncraine shows both their devotion to their work and their emerging union and the scene ends with a sense of completion.
Something intrudes—whether a studio mandate, an ambivalent director, warring writers—and the duet is mired in crowd-pleasing comedy, family subplots and the necessary sports set-up. It's as if somebody insisted on imposing light British comedy (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, Love Actually) on a charming sports-themed love affair. Wimbledon loses its drive.
Dunst might have made the more interesting athlete of the two, but her character is inconsistent; she's free-spirited and ruthless and, since her character's intentions are unclear, it's not entirely Dunst's fault that she is all over the court.
So is the movie, which never fully captures the tension of a top match or the glory and stature of Wimbledon. Loncraine spends too much time showing separated spouses, a half-wit brother and Bettany's obnoxious American agent (Jon Favreau) and not enough time showing what it takes to compete at Wimbledon. When Bettany takes the court to play the game of his life—apparently without benefit of a tennis coach—he's a guy with a crush on a girl; it doesn't matter whether he wins.
That makes the prolonged final match with an ugly American rather tedious. Sam Neill is the most developed as Dunst's protective father and Nikolaj Coster-Waldau shines as Bettany's virtuous best friend but, because there's neither enough tennis nor enough of the leading tennis players, one leaves Wimbledon without feeling like one's been there.
At times, Loncraine comes close. In the most affecting scene, championship Wimbledon contenders and lovers Kirsten Dunst and Paul Bettany share an intimate moment on an abandoned tennis court where Bettany's aging pro first learned to swing the racquet. Under the starry skies, Loncraine shows both their devotion to their work and their emerging union and the scene ends with a sense of completion.
Something intrudes—whether a studio mandate, an ambivalent director, warring writers—and the duet is mired in crowd-pleasing comedy, family subplots and the necessary sports set-up. It's as if somebody insisted on imposing light British comedy (Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill, Love Actually) on a charming sports-themed love affair. Wimbledon loses its drive.
Dunst might have made the more interesting athlete of the two, but her character is inconsistent; she's free-spirited and ruthless and, since her character's intentions are unclear, it's not entirely Dunst's fault that she is all over the court.
So is the movie, which never fully captures the tension of a top match or the glory and stature of Wimbledon. Loncraine spends too much time showing separated spouses, a half-wit brother and Bettany's obnoxious American agent (Jon Favreau) and not enough time showing what it takes to compete at Wimbledon. When Bettany takes the court to play the game of his life—apparently without benefit of a tennis coach—he's a guy with a crush on a girl; it doesn't matter whether he wins.
That makes the prolonged final match with an ugly American rather tedious. Sam Neill is the most developed as Dunst's protective father and Nikolaj Coster-Waldau shines as Bettany's virtuous best friend but, because there's neither enough tennis nor enough of the leading tennis players, one leaves Wimbledon without feeling like one's been there.
