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The enormously popular British novelist Nick Hornby writes books about men who, rather than outgrow their arrested development, concoct ridiculous strategies to remain irresponsible and selfish. Presumably, men like his stories because they see guys screwing up in ways they wish they could. And women seem to go for them because they love the man-child idea—up to a point that is, because Hornby always sees to it that his hero's m.o. backfires, shoving him into adulthood and, as a bonus, shaping him into a sensitive human being. Such was the fate of John Cusack's Rob Gordon in High Fidelity (2000), the first hit movie based on a Hornby bestseller, and so it goes for Hugh Grant's Will in this Hornby adaptation. Will is a cad who, in order to meet women, fakes his way into a single parents support group. The plot banks a couple hairpin turns to introduce a despondent mother (Toni Collette) and her wise-beyond-his-years son (Nicholas Hoult). The two guys—the man-child and the child-man—buddy up and, after another tumble of events, the kid beards as the man's son so Will can seduce another woman (Rachel Weisz).

Deception in close quarters and its ensuing complications have always been fundamental to romantic comedy. It's the single common factor running through the best-in-class list: Trouble in Paradise, It Happened One Night, My Man Godfrey, Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, Nothing Sacred, Easy Living, Bringing Up Baby, The Shop Around the Corner, The Philadelphia Story, His Girl Friday, The Lady Eve, The Palm Beach Story, The More the Merrier, Sullivan's Travels, The Miracle of Morgan's Creek, Born Yesterday, Roman Holiday, Pillow Talk, Some Like It Hot, The Apartment, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Georgy Girl, The Graduate, Shampoo, Tootsie, Prizzi's Honor, Moonstruck, Bull Durham, Flirting with Disaster, and There's Something About Mary. Each of these pictures, though, wastes little time introducing their characters or setting up their premises in order kick off the comedy. That one (or both) of the lovers has something to hide is a generic given. What makes them funny is how ingeniously they juggle their circumstances and how, as the lies pile up, they put themselves at greater risk. About a Boy misses this point completely. It drags us through the set-up step by step—there's not a blithe bone in its body. And, just to make things worse, the child keeps dropping nuggets of wisdom and few, if any, things can be more annoying to watch than a killjoy kid doling out life lessons to stupid adults. (Didn't anybody on this movie suffer through Jerry Maguire?)

Grant turns in his standard dithering, non-plussed performance; sometimes it's hard to discern if it's Will or Hugh who's confused about the situation he's in. He seems smaller than usual here, too, a pinball careering off the plot's bumpers and pitfalls. Every time he takes on one of these piffling roles, some critic gets beside himself and compares him to Cary Grant. The stretch could not be wider, however. Cary was always a man caught in situations that forced him to behave childishly. Hugh is our Tony Curtis—he's only charming when he's trying to catch up with the adults (who often don't even try to conceal their condescension toward him). Stuck as we are with morons (Jim Carrey, Owen Wilson) and schmucks (Ben Stiller, Adam Sandler) dominating our romantic comedies, Grant is always a welcome change. About a Boy's agenda, though, is lining things up so Will/Grant will learn how to act his age. In the process, it turns its typically nimble, engaging star into a thumping bore.

An odd blend of documentary, hagiography, exploitation picture, and polemic about Muhammad Ali made with The Greatest's full cooperation during the lean period between his fall from favor—primarily for refusing to serve in Vietnam—and his triumphant comeback in Zaire. Ali may have been down when this was shot (one can't shake the sense that financial pressure is behind his participation) but he's far from out. The movie makes all the usual stops on the Clay tour: poor Louisville upbringing, Golden Gloves, meteoric rise to champ, etc., floridly narrated by Richard Kiley. What makes this movie worth seeing, though, are interstitial conversations between Ali and his lifelong mentor and coach, Cus d'Amato. They know one another so well and have been at this so long that their improvised dialogue shakes out like two old vaudeville pros taking potshots at one another. Ali keeps boasting and d'Amato keeps getting under the champ's skin; their bits are truly funny and fascinating to watch. (The segments where d'Amato taunts his pupil by suggesting he'd be no match for great boxers of the past are particularly rich.) We'll never see another superstar like Ali, whose trademark bravado was still no match for his enormous talent. This cheesy little picture gives us a glimpse into the dynamic behind the legend. The deep-seated love between this unlikely pair is unmistakable. We realize how lucky Ali was having d'Amato in his corner. The little guy is fearless of the giant towering over him; they're both butterflies and bees.