A Generally Uninspired Love Story

Rating: 4/10 (20 September 2009)

There is no cure for heartache like love, or maybe just a one-night stand, in "Hitch," a gauzy and serviceable drag directed by romantic comedy connoisseur Andy Tennant ("Sweet Home Alabama"). That at least is the prognosis of Alex Hitchens a k a Hitch a k a Will Smith, a suave New York bachelor who struts his stuff and thankless talents about Lower Manhattan, instructing desperate loner guys how to woo pretty girls. There is no love but narcissism and certainly no satisfaction (or salary), but Mr. Smith seems to be having a grand old time, wearing and owning that familiar lovable goofy smile.
Written by newcomer Kevin Bisch, "Hitch" makes the most of that lovable goofiness, if not an especially interesting story out of it. As yummy as cotton candy and just as vaporous, the programmatic screenplay more or less follows Albert (Kevin James), a hapless meathead who invokes the help of Hitch to snag the girl he lusts after, a bosomy babe named Allegra (Amber Valletta).
Stuff happens — backs are waxed, dance moves are taught, and a gay encounter is hastily averted, along with, effectively, the homosexual tendencies of the main characters. (Whew!) That may make "Hitch" no more exciting than the average marshmallow that tends to float in and out of cineplexes these days, but part of the appeal of movies like this one comes from its lack of unfamiliar surprises, its willingness to remain in the warmth and safety of formulaic inspiration while other, more ambitious projects reap the benefits – and sometimes the drawbacks – of venturing out into the unknown.
That reluctance grips the film like a vise, holding fast even when Hitch unexpectedly falls for Sara (Eva Mendes), a gossip columnist who at first seems impervious to Hitch's smooth- talking tricks. As it happens, not even this turn of events – the love doctor? infected? – can gather enough momentum to keep the story afloat, but it at least helps prove that Hitch, much like the actor behind him, is one step above your average lady-killer (which I'm sure is the whole point). Affable and charming rather than smarmy and manipulative, Hitch never takes cruel or callous advantage; he'll always choose the tenderness of a real relationship over the meaningless lust of a one-night stand. That good-natured vibe serves Mr. Smith nicely, even when Mr. Bisch's chivalric tendencies border on the saccharine: "'Hit it and quit it' is not my thing," Hitch explains, a twinkle in his eye and a lump of gold in his heart.
But there's always a hitch, and one of the problems with "Hitch" is that it tediously, systematically goes off without one; it doesn't tease you, enchant you, make you guess and wring your hands, much less dab your eyes or tickle your funny bone. At no point does it run off the tracks, but neither does it go anyplace interesting or new. Instead, it just putt, putt, putts along, riding on the lonely highway of Mr. Tennant's smooth and capable direction. It's competent, or at least competent enough to make the better of its lackadaisical screenplay. It just isn't very good.
Neither subtle nor revelatory enough, "Hitch" instead emerges as an exemplar of a familiar kind of Hollywood cookie-cutting, thanks largely to Mr. Bisch's reductive screenplay, which lacks both the confidence and creative nerve this sort of chestnut needs to get off the ground. It's a generically banal if wholly high-minded romance flick. It's dumb, it's flat, and the scenes lack snap or wit, which no amount of talent can provide. And unlike "Sweet Home Alabama," Mr. Tennant's last submission to the genre, it also lacks Reese Witherspoon. That's turns out to be especially calamitous, because with the exception of Ms. Mendes, an amiable and underused comic actress, the supporting performances are surprisingly bland. Ms. Mendes, for her part, does her best to charm her audience and pick through the muck with grace, even as the filmmakers reduce her character to assorted platitudes and pratfalls.
Throughout much of "Hitch" Mr. Bisch dabbles periodically in the stormy and delicate emotions of love, its pleasures, its romps and roiling passions and, most of all, in its heartbreaks, but he tends to avoid tapping into deep wells of emotion. That's to be expected, since Mr. Bisch has yet to learn the true crafts of his trade — namely that true love is not concocted, facilitated, or, worse, prescribed — though here he at least manages to keep his efforts modest and the audience's tender heart unscathed, if unmoved at all.
But the heart has its needs, and although Mr. Smith willingly provides the goods — narcotics, mostly — he rarely extends his character beyond the traditional assortment of platitudinous set pieces, teary revelations and cloying matchmaking aperçus. "Any man has a chance to sweep any woman off her feet; he just needs the right broom," he recites graciously near the movie's opening, at which point we're supposed smile at his chivalry and reach for our tissues, not just retch.