A harmless fantasy designed to appeal to (pre)adolescent girls and their mothers, "Wimbledon" coasts through its relatively plot-free love story thanks to the charms of lead Paul Bettany and, to a lesser extent, co-star Kirsten Dunst (who's getting a little too comfortable playing The Girl, if you ask me). One of the movie's greatest strengths, its CGI-enhanced tennis matches (the ball is always digitally inserted), also turns to be its greatest weakness, since the screenplay hews to just about every sports movie cliche in the book.

Thus you can be certain that fading ne'er-do-well British tennis player Peter Colt (Bettany) might just do OK in his final Wimbledon tournament, particularly after an adorable Lucky Ball Boy (Jonathan Timmins) is introduced during Peter's second match. Never mind that Peter is ranked No. 119 in the world and plans to retire after Wimbledon to become a tennis pro for a bunch of nauseatingly oversexed British biddies. The power of a Lucky Ball Boy cannot be underestimated.

Then there is the power of love. Before his opening match, Peter pulls a "meets cute" with Lizzie Bradbury, an up-and-coming American tennis star who's supposed to be something of a hothead, though her on-court antics won't make anyone forget Ilie Nastase. (Sorry if I'm showing my age.) Lizzie has a father (Sam Neill) who's supposed to be something of an overprotective parent/coach, although he must be distracted since Peter and Lizzie are having off-screen sex about every 15 minutes or so during the movie.

Lizzie inspires Peter to play better tennis. What Peter inspires in Lizzie is harder to say, since Lizzie's character is so poorly defined. You could say she has some issues with her dad, only he turns out to be a pretty big softy. So is Lizzie, which is antithetical to the kinds of personality traits you'd find in a competitive athlete of that caliber.

But then, who expects realism in a movie where parents live in tree houses, shooting comets conveniently appear during romantic montages (cue David Gray) and professional tennis players have a difficult time understanding why one of their own might want to get some sleep instead of engaging in an all-night love-making marathon the night before a match.

These flights of fancy are still preferable to a finals match that seems to last longer on screen than it would in real life and the irritatingly obvious commentary from Chris Evert and John McEnroe that accompanies it. Put it this way: Even the Lucky Ball Boy has to leave, though I won't reveal the reason why since it's probably the film's most intriguing surprise.