Living & Arts

'Leatherheads' fumbles

In print | April 17, 2008

Maybe it was the plinkety Charlie Chaplin soundtrack in the background; maybe it was the way the whole world onscreen seemed to radiate golden light; maybe it was George Clooney’s cheesy grimace as he got up close and personal with another actor’s armpit. But as the opening credits of “Leatherheads” rolled, I began to suspect that this movie was trying too hard. When I found out that the main characters were named Dodge and Bullet, I knew that this movie was trying to hard.

There’s no particular reason not to see “Leatherheads,” Clooney’s apocryphal tale of the origins of pro football, especially if you’re the kind of person who thinks that you’ve been touched by the hand of the Lord whenever Clooney smirks in your direction. There’s plenty of smirking to go around, so bring a friend. But woe betide you if that friend is a fan of Cary Grant, because Clooney is making a bid to fill those screwball-shoes. Tug and strain though he might, the fit just isn’t right.

Maybe it’s because everything that was made circa 1940 just seems better, or maybe it’s because Clooney just ain’t Grant, but “Leatherheads” is a pale reflection of the mid-20th century Hollywood comedies it so clearly seeks to both ape and recreate. Part of the problem is that it’s trying to do both and ends up paralyzed somewhere in the middle. There’s too much wink-wink, nudge-nudge business for any part of the film to seem remotely sincere, and yet there’s not enough of it to appreciate the movie as a sharp satire.

“Leatherheads” is a self-consciously hokey, halo-infused telling of the professionalization of football. Clooney (who also directs) is Dodge Connolly, MAP (Most Attractive Person) of a pro football team in 1925, back when the league rule book consisted of only four words: Don’t Kill Each Other. Dodge brings college phenom and war hero Carter “Bullet” Rutherford (John Krasinki) on board to raise flagging ticket sales. As Bullet starts to do the unspeakable — run plays, stay sober during the game, win, that sort of thing — Dodge misses the old days of “Chasing the Cattail,” “Pig and a Poke” and “Crusty Bobs.” (No, I don’t know what those things are, either, but apparently football isn’t the same without them). Renée Zellweger shows up as intrepid reporter Lexi Littleton (cute nod to the Superman fans) trying to discredit Bullet’s war record. About every ten minutes there’s a bar fight, and the plinkety piano really gets a workout.

All of this is perfectly cute, but nothing in “Leatherheads” is particularly compelling, unless you count Clooney’s blindingly and unfailingly white teeth. A few parts do ring true. Bullet’s impact convinces the league to begin standardization, leading to a charming moment when the poor referee for the Big Game, so used to the days of Crusty Bobs, can’t get through the coin toss without consulting his brand-new rule book every time he wants to breathe. But few other scenes in “Leatherheads” really capture the feel of the time in the same way — everyone is far too busy mugging for the camera.

This preoccupation leaves the characters with little time for conflict, except in the form of a pedestrian love triangle, with Dodge and Bullet (har har) competing for the scathingly snappy Lexi’s attention. Maybe it’s that Lexi’s witty repartee with Dodge is laid on thicker than Clooney’s hair gel, but Zellweger strikes up more chemistry with Krasinki, who at least is less smirky, even if he does throw words like “gee” and “gosh” around with reckless abandon. Though hijinks abound, nothing quite zany enough happens to give “Leatherheads” the zing it needs to work its way free from its distancing self-referentiality.

That ham-handed approach ultimately prevents “Leatherheads” from making the leap from pleasant congeniality to wacky fun. This film would have done better to go fully in the direction of “Down with Love,” a movie similar in tone and level of smirk but which takes its gimmick (a send-up of ‘60s sex comedies) much further. As it is, the artifice of the whole thing interferes with the comedy in “Down with Love,” but the artifice itself isn’t funny enough to propel “Leatherheads” along. Grant and his contemporaries walked this line effortlessly. It’s clear that Clooney, especially as a director, is still struggling to find his balance.