Off his game

George Clooney plays Dodge Connelly, captain of a 1920s-era football team, in the romantic comedy Leatherheads. (Melinda Sue Gordon/Universal Pictures)

It’s a puff-piece truism that George Clooney is a throwback to the great movie stars of yesteryear, a modern-day Clark Gable, Gary Cooper or Cary Grant. It’s the latter to which he’s most often compared, but what these comparisons miss is how Clooney, for the most part, acts like a Cary Grant character only in real life: suave, stylish and self-deprecating. Only rarely (in O, Brother Where Art Thou? and Intolerable Cruelty, say) has Clooney attempted the kind of screwball comedy that made Grant famous in films like Bringing Up Baby and His Girl Friday.

With Leatherheads, however, Clooney sets out to correct that situation. The actor’s third film as director (after Confessions of a Dangerous Mind and critical fave Good Night, and Good Luck), Leatherheads is a comedy about the early days of professional football, set in 1925. Then, the sport was a money-losing proposition played by delinquent, fun-loving miners and farmers to ever-dwindling crowds. (Imagine that, Tom Brady.) Its collegiate counterpart, however, was an entirely different thing. The film opens — rapturously — on a Princeton-Penn game, whose stadium is packed with well-dressed, enthusiastic fans.

The star of this particular game is golden boy Carter Rutherford (The Office’s John Krasinski), a gifted player (his nickname is “The Bullet”) whose prowess on the field is further burnished by his record in the First World War. There, Carter, who had temporarily left school to serve his country, single-handedly fended off a dozen German soldiers. Squired by an oily agent (Jonathan Pryce), Carter has parlayed his fame into a dazzling array of product endorsements: his pearly, lopsided grin looms from ads for everything from razor blades to tooth polish.

Rutherford’s exploits capture the interest of two different parties: Dodge Connelly (Clooney), the aging star of the Duluth Bulldogs, a team on the verge of financial collapse, and Lexie Littleton (Renee Zellweger), an ambitious Chicago reporter in the wisecracking Rosalind Russell mode. Dodge schemes to get Carter to play for the Bulldogs (somehow offering him $5,000 for each game). Lexie, who’s learned that Carter’s war record isn’t quite on the level, is angling for a scoop. And both Dodge and Carter inevitably fall for Lexie.

Dodge (George Clooney, right) and reporter Lexie Littleton (Renee Zellweger) are opposites who attract. (Melinda Sue Gordon/Universal Pictures)

This is just one flaw in this amiable but thoroughly disappointing film. Zellweger, whose small charms wore off long ago (all the Bridget Jones weight gain-and-loss certainly hasn’t helped), might be hardpressed to seduce one man, let alone two. Lexie’s lines (courtesy of Sports Illustrated writers Duncan Brantley and Rick Reilly) would have been cut from an episode of Will and Grace. And Zellweger’s sass feels thoroughly scripted and false. Tough gals don’t pout.

This lack of believability extends to the rest of the film as well. Clearly, Clooney has studied his Howard Hawks as closely as a coach watches game films, but more importantly — and detrimentally — his most significant mentors are the Coen brothers. And while the Coens long ago perfected the art of pastiche, Clooney — who has yet to find a consistent directorial voice — only apes their worst tendencies: shorthand slapstick, flat jokes, tissue-thin characters. (And, as in the Coen movies he’s starred in, he’s unforgivably hammy.) Enthralled by period detail — the costumes and sets are striking, the Randy Newman soundtrack suitably ragtime-y, the hairdos impeccable — Clooney forgets the most basic hallmark of successful screwball: it’s gotta be funny. Sub-Keystone Cops chase scenes and shots of a bulldog in a football helmet would not gladden George Cukor’s heart.

The movie advances predictably. Carter saves the Bulldogs, but the love triangle leads to brawls and broken hearts. Clooney’s real interest, however, is in how the game gradually changes — a commissioner is brought in, a rulebook added — leaving behind men like Dodge Connelly. The film constantly jokes about Dodge’s age — a side effect of Clooney’s self-consciousness about his own heartthrob status, perhaps. But such rumination never pays off, as drama or comedy. (Sample dialogue: “You’re only as young as the girls you feel.”) The saving grace of this detour is the introduction of The Wire’s Peter Gerety as the new football commissioner — he’s the only actor in the film who thoroughly inhabits his role, and his weary authority dominates every scene he’s in.

And, yes, unfortunately, that’s counting Krasinski. A thoroughly charming actor on TV — his good looks seem to literally emanate from his good nature — he has yet to transfer this talent to the big screen. His affable Carter is all smiles, but nothing more. If his crisis-of-conscience registers in his soul, Krasinski — or director Clooney — never lets it show on his face. Krasinski might yet become the Jimmy Stewart of the McSweeney’s Generation — his directorial debut, now in post-production, is an adaptation of David Foster Wallace’s Brief Interviews With Hideous Men and he’s set to star in Sam Mendes’ next film, penned by Dave Eggers. However, this movie won’t be the one to cement that reputation.

When Dodge and Carter finally, inevitably, go head-to-head on the field, the muddy clash is relatively entertaining — and one of the few occasions the film spends much time on the gridiron. But like the rest of Leatherheads — and the Bulldogs themselves — it expends a lot of energy for very little reward. Good Night, and Good Luck succeeded in part because it refashioned — refreshingly — a period of American history that remains dramatic to this day. Leatherheads does the exact opposite: taking a forgotten time period and making a film that’s equally as forgettable.

Leatherheads opens April 4.

Jason McBride writes about the arts for CBCNews.ca.

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