C
An argument could be made that Julianne Moore, who has a brittle streak to her, is the contemporary Katharine Hepburn, but it’s rather a stretch to think of Pierce Brosnan, of all people, as our modern-day Spencer Tracy. But those are the stars whose work they’re essentially mimicking in this newest film from Brosnan’s own production company. “Laws of Attraction”–not to be confused with the dreadful “Rules of Attraction,” based on Brett Easton Ellis’ college novel–is a very old-fashioned romantic comedy about two very dissimilar divorce lawyers who fall in love while repeatedly facing one another on opposite sides of the courtroom. With Moore playing the chic, uptight, ambitious Audrey Woods and Brosnan the rumpled, easygoing, smooth-talking Daniel Rafferty, Peter Howitt’s picture puts viewers in “Adam’s Rib” territory from the very start, and winds up exactly where you would expect. Older viewers who affectionately remember the old battle-of-the-sexes classics may embrace the movie as a nostalgia trip worth taking, but the sad fact is that while it’s done up with gloss and good will, it falls far short of its models and winds up innocuous, but thin and decidedly creaky.
The initial contact between the leads comes when the disheveled, ostensibly unprepared Rafferty bests the outwardly confident but inwardly insecure Woods in a high-profile case. This leads, as the result of some overly cutesy plotting, to dinner, some too-heavy drinking and a (theoretically) one-night stand, which eventually evolves into something more. But when the two square off in an even more heavily-publicized case, involving a rock star and his fashion-designer wife, and they go off to Ireland to depose the servants at a castle both want as part of the settlement, the Celtic magic takes them all the way to the M word–something that could have serious career ramifications. Of course, despite all the difficulties and reversals, the pair winds up as the couple they’ve obviously been destined to become.
Most of the problem with “Laws of Attraction” derives from the script by Aline Brosh McKenna and Robert Harling. It’s entirely formulaic, of course, but that’s not fatal in fluff like this. The more serious flaw is in characterization. Rafferty is written as little more than a typically raffish rogue, and Brosnin really doesn’t bring much to him beyond scruffy attire, unkempt hair and a smirk intended to be attractive. Even worse, Woods isn’t provided with the smarts she ought to possess. Hepburn might always have fallen for Tracy, but her characters never resembled the dithering, sappy creature Moore must play here; there was always a keen intelligence at work in them, even when they appeared to surrender unconditionally to Spencer’s grumpy charm. By contrast Woods is the unfortunate stereotype of the professional woman reduced to blubbering ineptitude by the mere fact that a man shows an interest in her. And, of course, she’s wracked by feelings of inferiority and a tendency to binge out under stress. It’s a pity she couldn’t have been written with the sharpness Moore deserves.
As was often the case in the old films this one is trying to channel, many of the best moments come from the supporting players. Frances Fisher has a field day as Audrey’s grande dame mother, who exalts in her clothes, good looks and feminine wiles and steers her daughter toward Rafferty. Michael Sheen and Parker Posey don’t know the meaning of subtlety as seedy rocker Thorne Jamison and his punkish designer wife Serena–the clients in the lawyers’ big confrontation–but their broadness is entirely in place with such caricatures. And Nora Dunn brings her brand of waspish sarcasm to the part of a sharp-tongued judge; she suggests what Thelma Ritter might have done with such a role if women had been permitted on the bench back in the 1940s. Howitt’s direction isn’t exactly scintillating, but he does bring the movie in under 90 minutes, which is a blessing.
Brosnin’s company has bestowed a nifty physical production on “Laws of Attraction.” The sets, costumes and widecreen cinematography by Adrian Biddle are all top-notch, while Edward Shearmur’s score adds a touch of jazzy elegance to the proceedings. One also has to note the producer-star’s loyalty to his native Ireland in including a lengthy sequence focusing on the Emerald Isle. The treatment may be more than a bit hokey, but along with the earlier “Evelyn” it shows that he hasn’t forgotten his roots (and is anxious to take advantage of them).
Still, when all is said and done, the picture is less than it might have been–which at its best wouldn’t have been very much. One can count a full baker’s dozen names listed as producers (real and executive) in the opening credits, which suggests that the old adage about too many cooks retains its validity.