OCTOBER 2004

Centre Court Becomes Centre Stage
A Behind-the-Scenes Sneak Peek at Wimbledon the Movie

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Once Spider-Man's girl, Dunst falls for a journeyman in Wimbledon.

By Richard Osborn

LONDON — It’s the hottest day on record in the history of London — 95.5§F. The Tube is experiencing delays because tracks have shifted and buckled in the unrelenting heat. The Evening Standard headline groans, “Commuter Heat Wave: Misery Worsens.” Trafalgar Square’s fountain has been reduced to a public pool. Even the London Eye — the giant Ferris wheel that looms over the Thames like an oversized hamster treadmill and attracts hordes of tourists — has been ruled off-limits in order to “protect the comfort of the guests.” An Independent editorial queries, “It’s just not natural, this weather, is it? Not British.”

The Hammersmith Flyover is closed for three weeks for repairs, all but cutting off central London from Heathrow Airport. So my driver, Geoffrey, cadaverous in a heavy gray suit, opts for the somewhat circuitous A40 toward Hyde Park. Geoffrey is having a bad hair day, but this doesn’t stop him from expounding on Britain’s welfare woes, a circumstance he blames on Tony Blair’s “soft borders” policies and an influx of foreigners from the West Indies and the splintered Yugoslav republics, whom he accuses of cheating the system.

“This is the front line,” he says, dabbing his forehead and gesturing toward an immigrant neighborhood of brick row houses on the outskirts of the city, a mere blur from my passenger window. “Why should we go kosher when all we do is get screwed?”

Geoffrey drones on, but, jetlagged and on the verge of heatstroke, I begin to drift off. I’ve got other things to do than to repair Britain’s social security status. I’m here for Wimbledon. Actually, the tournament’s ‘03 edition has been in the books for weeks now, Roger Federer and Serena Williams having long departed, trophies in hand. But Universal Pictures and Working Title Films (the folks who brought you Four Weddings and a Funeral, Notting Hill and Bridget Jones’ Diary) are in the midst of shooting another romantic comedy, aptly titled Wimbledon. I’m scheduled to meet with co-stars Kirsten Dunst (Spider-Man, Mona Lisa Smile) and Paul Bettany (A Beautiful Mind, Master and Commander) on the set in the morning.

The film is touted as a romance-across-the-net tale of love and renewal between Peter Colt (Bettany) and Lizzie Bradbury (Dunst) — an unlikely pair at opposite ends of their pro careers. Colt is an aging Brit journeyman who barely manages to score a wildcard into the Wimbledon draw; Bradbury is a confident young American star at the top of her game. With Bradbury as his muse, Colt pulls an Agassi and rises from the ashes to win it all. Henmania be damned. Timmy couldn’t do it, so, after a 68-year wait, the Brits finally get another Wimbledon men’s champ. Only it took Hollywood to make it happen.

But what is more bewildering than a Brit returning to prominence at the All England Club is that Universal and director Richard Loncraine would gamble on a genre that, historically, has proved wholly unpalatable. Let’s face it: While other sports have thrived on the silver screen (think Raging Bull, Chariots of Fire, Hoop Dreams), tennis hasn’t exactly wowed ‘em at the box office. Consider the last “great” cinematic foray into tennis — Anthony Harvey’s ‘79 flop Players (which featured cameos by McEnroe, Nastase and Vilas, among others). Starring Ali McGraw and Dean Paul Martin, this droning drama was as forgettable as it was campy. Not that tennis hasn’t had its noteworthy on-screen moments. The sport proved an ideal fit for Hitchcock’s thriller Strangers On a Train. The late Katharine Hepburn lit up the screen opposite Spencer Tracy in Pat and Mike. And Luke Wilson’s grass-court meltdown in The Royal Tenenbaums was unadulterated comic genius. But tennis has yet to generate the on-the-edge-of-your-seat excitement of a Rocky.

The news the next morning is mixed. Bettany has been called to a London hospital, where his wife, the actress Jennifer Connelly, perhaps induced by the soaring temperatures, has given birth to the couple’s first baby. He won’t be available. And with her co-star in absentia, Dunst has been given the day off. But all is not lost. I’m going to meet with young Six Feet Under star Austin Nichols, who, as cocky American Jake Hammond, is the antagonist who stands between our hero and his Wimbledon triumph.

The hallowed Wimbledon grounds along Church Road are quiet. The purple and white pansies are still in full bloom, but gone are the queues, the bustling crowds, the strawberries and cream. There’s an eerie all-quiet-on-the-set silence as I’m ushered onto Centre Court, where, despite the presence of cast, crew and 400 extras, all that can be heard is the ruffling of a temporary white canopy that has been suspended over the stadium to refract the harsh midday sun. The majority of the seats are filled with wig-wearing mannequins and blow-up dummies, which add a surreal calm to this theater-in-the-round. Digital artists will later transform them into cheering crowds. I soon find myself seated next to none other than Pat Cash, who is serving as a special advisor. Looking fit in a faded blue Ellesse T-shirt, wrap-around sunglasses and an earring, Cash still looks the part of youthful Wimbledon champ. In fact, we’re seated in the exact spot where he famously climbed into the stands following his ‘87 victory over Ivan Lendl.

“I was right there,” he whispers, motioning toward a row of seats directly behind us. “I got over a few seats and realized, ‘Oh, God, there’s a big old hallway I’m not going to be able to jump over.’ So I had to climb on the commentary booth.”

Cash spends much of his time in the commentary booth these days. But when producers asked him to oversee the authenticity of the film, he jumped at the opportunity. Among his duties: Cash was charged with making the film’s headliners look like seasoned vets in four months.

“I was horrified,” reflects Cash. “These were guys who had never played any ball sports in their lives. Getting the shots down was one thing, but movement was the biggest issue. You’ve got somebody who’s never really jogged around the block and you’ve got to make them sprint like Lleyton Hewitt.”

Nichols, a former champion water-skier from Texas, but a guy who’d scarcely picked up a racket before landing the role, is in the midst of a 12-hour day on the set. Loncraine and assistant director Richard Whelan are barking commands as they prepare for a scene from the Colt vs. Hammond final.

“Rehearsal,” shouts Whelan.

Centre Court looks a bit too green, too perfect. There’s none of the brown grass around the baseline that you would usually see by the tournament’s second week. But all the other details are there. Ballboys are in place. Linesmen are crouched, hands on knees. Photographers angle faux Nikons in the photo pit. Courtside fans cheer and wave the Union Jack. The bushy-haired Nichols, looking rather retro-McEnroe in a white headband, steps up to the service line and proceeds to dump two balls into the net.

“Closer to your body, Austin. Get underneath it,” prompts Cash. “You’re too far out.”

The process starts again, but Nichols nets yet another serve.

“F—-!” Nichols screams in frustration.

It seems Cash would prefer to discuss Nichols’ forehand: “It’s absolutely as good as anybody’s on the circuit,” he says. “I swear to God. He hits it like a bullet. He’s our star pupil.”

Nichols finally lands a nifty serve down the T.

“That was a serve!” encourages Cash. “That was an ace!”

"We wanted to be the first English player. We're going completely on that hope. The hope of a country rests on, not a horse, but one man. Forget Seabiscuit, we've got Peter Colt." - Liza Chasin

Actually, Nichols is quite convincing in his portrayal. Tall and lanky, with engaging brown eyes, he has the rituals, all the nuances, down cold — spinning his racket between points and endlessly adjusting his strings. Clearly, he’s done his homework.

“I started watching footage — a lot of vintage stuff,” explains Nichols, who also trained in L.A. with fellow cast member Murphy Jensen, himself playing the role of The Mad Ukrainian who (brace yourself) reaches the Wimbledon semis. “I watched Borg and McEnroe at Wimbledon in ‘80. I watched Ashe and Connors at Wimbledon in ‘75. I love those old clothes, old shoes, the headbands, the hair. Part of me wants to quit acting and jump on the tour.”

Nichols was a key player in what executive producer Liza Chasin calls the film’s “money shot.” During the genuine Wimbledon fortnight, the production company delayed the start of Henman’s second-round match by half an hour to film a sequence in front of a packed house (“The actors were terrified,” confides Chasin). They were given 15 minutes to capture head referee Allan Mills escorting Nichols and Bettany onto Centre Court. They nailed it in two takes.

“That ranks right up there as one of the coolest things I’ve ever done,” Nichols exclaims.

Afterward, Henman quipped, “Hopefully, [it’s] not reflected in our desperation to win this tournament that they have to make a film about it.” He eventually lost in the quarters to Sebastien Grosjean.

“We’ve spent the last five years wishing Henman would lose — and he has. That’s perfect,” says Chasin, a confessed tennis nut who was raised in Forest Hills, N.Y. “We wanted to be the first English player. We’re going completely on that hope. The hope of a country rests not on a horse, but one man. Forget Seabiscuit, we’ve got Peter Colt.”

Cash sees his role as that of choreographer. Loncraine and Co. have granted him carte blanche to orchestrate — shot by shot — much of the film’s tennis sequences. So far his regimen has proved rather demanding. The very first day on the set, Bettany cracked a rib, wrenched his back and tore skin off his leg diving for a ball.

Cash runs through the drill for Nichols’ next scene: serve, approach, forehand volley, backpedal, three straight overheads. Sounds easy enough. But you’ve got to sympathize with Nichols. There’s no one on the other side of the net. There’s not even a ball. Computer-generated imagery will fill in the blanks in post-production.

There’s a sudden hush:

“Here we go.”

“Roll, please.”

“Scene 13, take two, A-marker.”

“Action.”

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Loncraine, Cash and Dunst confer on the set.

Nichols runs through the scene, chip-and-charging and swatting at an imaginary ball — a sequence he repeats time and time again until Loncraine is satisfied.

“The shots you see maybe once every six months are all in one match,” says Cash, who promises Matrix-like stunts through the use of high-definition point-of-view and motion censor cameras.

The difference between this film and past failures may be the $35 million Universal is throwing into the project. While he estimates that the tennis scenes will account for only 15 minutes worth of film, Loncraine says he will likely spend half his budget on it. For instance, 100 extras cost in excess of $15,000 a day. They even built a spot-on replica of the players’ locker room because club members wouldn’t allow them access to the existing one.

Of course, the AELTC has commanded big bucks, too. But money aside, none of this would have been possible had it not been for the late IMG CEO Mark McCormack, who opened the doors to the stiff, old-school-tie AELTC by convincing club chairman Tim Phillips that, with TV ratings sagging, the film was just the sort of kick-in-the-pants the sport needed.

“Until he got involved, they rejected it, flat out,” Chasin deadpans.

At 6:13 p.m., Loncraine is on his knees, peering through a viewfinder. His hair a close-cropped pepper-gray, Loncraine wears a flowered red-gold Hawaiian shirt and khaki cargo shorts. He walks barefoot, a water-soaked dishrag around his neck to counter the searing heat. He’s a perfectionist — a passionate ball of hyper-energy who’s eager to translate his vision. He talks a mile a minute: “I’m a storyteller. That’s what I do for a living,” he says during a rare break between takes. “Tennis is about two ballet dancers on a green lawn. There’s nothing to hide behind. As a director, I can’t fudge much.”

Loncraine has shot more than 400 TV commercials in his career, but more recently has turned his attention to the cinema. His body of work includes Shakespeare’s Richard III , The Gathering Storm and an episode of HBO’s acclaimed Band of Brothers. He sees Wimbledon as a chance to introduce tennis to a new audience. At the same time, he knows it can’t rely solely on tennis.

“It’s a romantic comedy,” he says. “But there’s some very moving stuff. I want people to believe in the characters. I also want them to laugh. But you need counterpoint in a movie. If you have comedy, you need tragedy and sadness.”

With dusk descending, I leave Centre Court and make my way across the grounds to an awaiting car. Cash, who I had last seen obligingly signing copies of his autobiography, Uncovered, is still going strong, getting in his own hitting time on Court No. 6. The stands in Courts No. 2 and 4 are filled with mute mannequins awaiting a future scene, a captive audience watching a playerless match. The temperatures are beginning to cool now, and there’s even the hint of a merciful breeze, bringing with it hope that the UK’s oppressive heat wave may finally be waning. En route to my hotel, I pass the neo-classical mansions of West Bourne Grove and the Portobello Road Market in the quaint neighborhood of Notting Hill — once an ignored working-class enclave that — with help from its blockbuster namesake film starring Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts — has stepped into the spotlight and become a trendy, must-see destination filled with boutique shops, antique stalls and hip restaurants. I can’t help but wonder if Universal can work the same magic on tennis.

Universal’s Wimbledon opens in theatres nationwide on Sept. 17, and also stars Sam Neill, Jon Favreau and Nikolaj Coster-Waldau.

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