Did You Hear About the Morgans? (PG)

Alison Rowat's Review

Romantic chemistry. Not much of a name for a perfume, but if Hollywood could find a way to bottle the stuff it would be a bigger seller than Chanel No 5. First in the queue for an emergency dab behind the ears would be Hugh Grant and Sarah Jessica Parker, stars of the woefully bland Did You Hear About the Morgans?

Whatever these two are wearing, it’s the antidote to getting it on. More middle-aged snooze than love’s young dream, they are about as successful a romantic comedy pairing as David Cameron and Gordon Brown.

The Morgans, Paul and Meryl (Grant and Parker) are successful, fortysomething New Yorkers. He’s a rich lawyer, she’s a successful estate agent. They’re so busy-busy they need PAs (nice turns from Elisabeth Moss and Jesse Liebman) to function.

Paul and Meryl are what used to be known as Yuppies. Now, separated pending divorce, they are Shouties. But Paul, die-hard romantic that he is, won’t give up. He wants them to be together again, and it is while in the process of walking Meryl home after a dinner date that the couple witness a crime.

It is here that the caper, and unreality, kicks in. Paul and Meryl haven’t just witnessed any misdeed. Oh no.

This one is so fancy pants the Morgans must be placed in a witness protection programme. And not just any witness protection programme. Lord, no.

Their programme, get this, employs a private jet to take subjects to a secret location. It’s a bit like the CIA’s extraordinary rendition scheme, only it is run by the FBI and has in-flight catering and leather seats rather than hoods and shackles.

The couple are taken to Wyoming – why not? – and introduced to their protectors, Clay and Emma Wheeler (Sam Elliott and Mary Steenburgen). Clay and Emma are homespun types. Their town is folksy, the townsfolk are good, simple people, and everyone wears a Stetson. Into this gingham dappled land step the Shouties, about to learn a few basic lessons about what really matters in life. You get the idea. If not, rent a DVD of City Slickers or any number of other culture clash comedies.

Marc Lawrence, who writes and directs, is becoming something of a writer in residence to Grant after the daft but likeable Music and Lyrics and Two Weeks Notice.

In Music and Lyrics, Grant’s female oppo was Drew Barrymore. In Two Weeks Notice it was Sandra “Miss Congeniality” Bullock. Two fine romantic comedy players.

The problem with Did You Hear About the Morgans is not Sarah Jessica Parker. Parker, like Jennifer Aniston, hasn’t been blessed with the best of roles lately, but she’s been in enough – Sex and the City, The Family Stone – to show that she has what it takes to cut it in comedy. She certainly gets the best of the laughs here.

The problem with the Morgans is threefold. First, a lame story that hasn’t met a cliche it didn’t fall in love with at first sight. From the way the Morgans bicker, to the route the story takes from set up to denouement, everything has been seen and done before. Like looking across the prairie at an approaching tornado, each twist of the plot can be seen coming several miles off.

Second, what the Morgans bicker about is hardly the stuff of rom-com gold of old.

They are not Walter and Hildy arguing over marriage in His Girl Friday, or Harry and Sally navigating the perilous divide between friendship and romantic love. Paul and Meryl’s problems are of a kind a set up like this doesn’t have a hope of dealing with in any credible, never mind amusing, way.

More of a difficulty is the Hughster himself. His performance is so telephoned in I expected to see Vodaphone listed in the credits as official sponsors.

Even when a dirty great bear is wheeled on to liven up proceedings, Grant reaches for the same old tics he seems to have been deploying since 1994’s Four Weddings and a Funeral.

Grant and Parker deal with the bear through a handy checklist of signs and coping strategies. A similar guide could now be written for Grant, so familiar has his act become. When faced with a dilemma, for instance, Ursus Hughus will chew his bottom lip furiously.

His stammering ums and ahs should be taken as a sign of upper class distress.

As Ursus Hughus raises a paw to his floppy fringe those standing nearby are in considerable danger of being lethally bored. You may wish at this juncture to curl up in a ball and go to sleep. If, on waking, the furry one is sporting a lopsided grin, assume it is safe to make your exit as quickly and quietly as possible.

New Year cinemagoers: go down to these woods today if you wish. Just don’t expect a big surprise.

Paul Greenwood's Review

Hugh Grant is an immensely appealing comedic actor who can generally lift otherwise ordinary films into perfectly presentable examples of the rom-com genre. And considering he makes so few movies these days, his presence is usually always welcomed.

But he’s powerless to do much about this shockingly bad effort in which he co-stars with Sarah Jessica Parker as a successful New York couple in the midst of a divorce who witness a murder and must go into the witness protection programme when they are targeted by the killer.

They end up in rural Wyoming in the care of Sam Elliot and Mary Steenburgen’s marshals, where they must hide out until the bad guy is caught.

This is a juicy setup which should afford plenty opportunity to do the usual fish out of water antics combined with War of the Roses style marital acrimony, but it’s handled so feebly that the result is a laugh vacuum.

Most of the attempted jokes centre around spoiled city folks coming unstuck in the sticks. Making fun of small town values is a well worn conceit, but rarely has it been applied as lazily as here.

So we get endless pokes at their food and love of hunting, all done with no trace of wit or insight and bear encounters among the appalling set pieces that look life leftovers from similar films made in the 80s.

Having Grant reunite with Marc Lawrence, the director of two of his strongest American films, Two Weeks Notice and Music and Lyrics bodes well, but he doesn’t really appear to be giving it his all, with even his usually smart one-liners consistently falling flat.

Much of the success of these kind of films can depend on the interaction and chemistry between the stars, even if Sarah Jessica Parker isn’t exactly a gift from the light comedy gods, Sex in the City notwithstanding.

But they’re not believable for a moment as either a bickering couple or a loving one, and you’ll get better value from the average episode of The King of Queens.

Perhaps if Grant could have been bothered, or if he was partnering Sandra Bullock, this might have just been bearable. As it is, it’s a travesty on every level.

The sad fact is, we’re barely into 2010 and we may already have experienced the year’s worst film.