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Rumpled, amiable Colin Firth plays a rumpled, amiable English teacher named Paul. He's also an obsessive football (soccer to us Americans) fan who's been avidly following the Arsenal team for 18 years. When he falls into a relationship with a new teacher named Sarah (played by Ruth Gemmel), his deep attachment to Arsenal proves an obstacle. This sounds like some cheap men-and-women-don't-understand-each-other setup, but instead
Fever Pitch not only explores the origins of Paul's football fandom, it actually communicates an infectious sense of what that kind of sports enthusiasm can mean, how it can provide an almost tribal identity. Even better, the movie takes this devotion seriously without ever losing sight of how it can be completely ridiculous at the same time, resulting in some amazing, funny scenes. Gemmel is charming, and Firth is simply superb. He's a great actor who's never quite fit into conventional leading man roles and so tends to play oddballs and redeemable villains, as in
Shakespeare in Love,
The English Patient, and
Apartment Zero. He's a perfect fit for this script, written by Nick Hornby (author of
High Fidelity and
About a Boy) from his novel of the same name. The humor of this movie is all the more engaging because it's grounded in richly developed characters and emotions.
Fever Pitch is excellent. Also featuring a hilarious cameo by Stephen Rea (
The Crying Game,
Guinevere).
--Bret Fetzer
Nick Hornby's beautiful and desperate book-about the pain behind a soccer fan's true love for the game-is given a pleasant, if somewhat lumpy, cinematic telling by director David Evans. Colin Firth plays a superfan who neglects certain responsibilities in pursuit of his favorite team's championship, and Ruth Gemmell, with a dry wit and warm comic flair, plays his frustrated love interest (she has no love for soccer). The film tries too hard to be both a romantic comedy and an emotional drama about fandom, but it's filled with intelligent observations on the nature of obsession and love. -Bruce Diones
Copyright © 2006
The New Yorker