George Clooney's well-groomed, pedigreed charm hits the screen full-force in "Leatherheads" — the impact of which leaves you slightly reeling. How can one, sole guy be so enchanting?
Clooney's third directorial feature stars himself as a gentlemanly rogue with a passion for American football. Compared to his recent projects ("Confessions of a Dangerous Mind," "Good Night and Good Luck"), "Leatherheads" is lighter on the palate, with extra bubbles to compensate for the slashed calories. Delightful but somewhat unmemorable, the pleasure of the film is fresh and fleeting. The best parties are like that — calculated in the way it measures out the fun, makes sure nothing gets out of line, the conversations witty and nicely flirtatious.
Set in the good ole days of 1925 in picturesque Minnesota, "Leatherheads" is a tale of the fledgling heydey of professional football crossed with a they-don't-make-'em-like-they-used-to, love story. It has that aristocratic, Preston Sturges ambience, which is probably harder to re-enact than most of us imagine. I mean, how many people in the modern world can wear a tweed jacket and not look weirdly professorial. As for Gorgeous George, as U.S. tabloids refer to him, his tweed jackets rest on his shoulders and embrace his torso in a way that would make Savile Row tailors swoon, not to mention any female in the audience over 12. He's in his element here; in the "Ocean" series he taught America how to wear a tuxedo (James Bond has that task in Britain), while in "Leatherheads" he demonstrates the art of being a rugged American gent, exuding a sensuous whiff consisting of homegrown pipe tobacco, lavender and gin rickeys.