In a gushing article last February, "Time" magazine declared George Clooney "The Last Movie Star." In the age of paparazzi surveillance and weekly celebrity meltdowns, Clooney, to "Time" at least, is a vestige of an era where movie stars and morals came in black and white (though some might point out a few shades of grey). Clooney is charming, he's talented, he's agedly handsome, but most importantly, he perpetually seems to have just swaggered out of some swanky, smoky and effortlessly exclusive night club. Whether it's all persona or Clooney really is that smooth, "Time" is right in pointing out it's a persona precious few celebs achieve nowadays.
With actor/director Clooney's Leatherheads, however, the old-school coolness appears to have hit a snag. Even if Clooney is today's Clark Gable and Cary Grant rolled into one, it doesn't mean he can get away with lifting a Gable or Grant movie into modern theaters sans any additions to the original product. Unfortunately, that's precisely what he's done here. Leatherheads isn't so much homage as rehash. For fans of 30s and 40s screwball comedies, Leatherheads will feel like a tired recitation. To everyone else, at best it comes off as a quaintly cute -- albeit quickly forgettable -- romance. Leatherheads isn't terrible, but it does nothing to revitalize the dead genre at which it so longingly grasps.
Set during the 1920s, Leatherheads tracks the efforts of Jimmy "Dodge" Connelly to keep his fledgling football team, the Valuth Bulldogs, alive. Connelly's faltering hoodwinks force him to conscript a squeaky clean national war hero into the Bulldogs' ranks, one Carter Rutherford (John Krasinki, better known as Jim Halpert of "The Office"), in the hopes of amping up public interest. In the process, Connelly butts heads with the typical screwball comedy feisty female, here the reporter Lexie Littleton (Renée Zellweger). Littleton, for her part, is out to prove Rutherford isn't the All-American champion the press has built him to be.
Before Leatherheads descends into the predictable romantic slapstick that its love triangle setup portends, it actually offers some breezy enjoyment. It's fun to see Clooney charming his way through period-piece football games, train stations, hotel lobbies and back room speakeasies. The set and costume design alone almost distracts from the movie's other shortcomings. Just when you think Clooney or the coat he's wearing might save a scene, the film's unavoidable flaw kicks in: the writing. Penned by "Sports Illustrated" reporters (and first-time screenplay writers) Duncan Brantley and Rick Reilly, much of the film plays out, as it would in any screwball comedy, through verbal spats between Connelly, Rutherford and Littleton. This is where Reilly and Brantley's lack of experience really shows. The dialogue fluctuates between modern clichés and forced 30s witticisms. Throwback dialogue tends to feel a little inorganic by nature, but here it's like the writers shut their ears off.
Of course, Reilly and Brantley shouldn't take all the blame. Aside from the poor lines, watching Zellweger (who, to be fair, I've always found about as a sexy as a scarecrow) do her best Hepburn and Clooney do his best Grant is a surprisingly joyless experience. At some point, you have to ask who the movie is out to entertain: the actors or the audience. It often feels like Clooney built Leatherheads more as a 1920s playground where he could pretend to be his cinematic heroes than as an actual movie. Which, obviously, is too bad. I'd be happy to see Clooney take the reins as the next Gable, McQueen, Reynolds or whatever iconic man's man actor with whom you want to compare him. It would just be nice if Clooney remembers it is best to pay homage to his idols, not insert himself into dumbed-down versions of their classics. 3
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