Notting Hill
dir. Roger Michell
Universal Pictures
If your fondest dreams consist simply of watching Hugh Grant walk up and down Portabello Road–and I cannot fault this fantasy–your prayers have been answered.
Why bother encapsulating the plot of Notting Hill? Julia Roberts meets Hugh Grant. That’s all you need to know. Not satisfied? It’s a bit like Breakfast at Tiffany’s: A glamorous but unhappy girl/woman with great bone structure crosses paths with a thoughtful, bookish (or at least bookselling) man who wants to protect her. Only this neo-Holly Golightly prefers Hampstead Heath to Tiffany’s.
As tabloid-hounded movie star Anna Scott, Julia Roberts is out to defend her title as the heir to Audrey Hepburn’s mojo. (Take that, Gwyneth.) She manages to tremble and glow simultaneously, without becoming too much of a martyr.
The story wants us to believe that every man on earth dreams of a
fleeting moment with the Hollywood goddess. But after 20 minutes, the truth is clear: Every woman on earth–goddess or no–dreams of going to London, wandering through a romantic flea market, and going home with Hugh Grant (or Williiam Thacker, if you care to learn his character’s name).
As a romantic comedy, Notting Hill does nicely. The little gags about society’s celebrity fetish and entertainment industry hype give it a funny, original twist. The movie proceeds a little too slowly, partly because Anna and William warm to each other awkwardly before they forget who they are supposed to be. Consequently, the story takes just a little too long to achieve giddiness, that critical magic that turns the bottom of your stomach to melted honey.
On the plus side, Notting Hill brings Grant back to his patented wry, literate, pathologically charming British persona. He has no range, and that’s just fine. He could make himself a franchise, like a sexually attractive Mr. Bean. This film is written by Richard Curtis (Four Weddings and a Funeral) and directed by Roger Michell (Persuasion, the most sweetly modest Jane Austen adaptation), so it’s an especially kind Hugh vehicle.
Once again Grant is surrounded by a group of offbeat chums. Their solid character acting and BBC naturalism (i.e., mortal bodies, bad teeth, bad hair) gives the film as much English credibility as the title’s address; in fact, the film would not work if the supporting actors did not have a totally different energy from the Hollywood star power. Grant sometimes overpowers the bit players, but he can bridge this effect (your video store will confirm his roots in cheap British films) while it sets off glossy American Anna perfectly. She stands out like a tourist in Leicester Square.
When Notting Hill comes out on video, I’m going to buy it and file it between Emma and Sliding Doors. Instead of slides from my vacation, I have a little collection of films kept for moments when I need to see England, sigh and feel like I am in love…or at least in London in the spring.
It’s no classic, but it will do in a pinch or when I get tired of Two Fat Ladies reruns.
— Megan Christensen (mmc3e4 at mizzou dot edu)
