Such is the case with the role of Peter Colt in the romantic comedy “Wimbledon.” Bettany is sublime as the struggling professional tennis never-a-star, bringing a light, world-weary wrinkle to what could easily have been just another been there/done that athlete part. But whether it is a slight cock of the eye, a wry twist of the head or the gentle strains of, “I love you,” Bettany is so perfect I think I swooned harder for Mr. Colt than object of his affections Lizzie Bradbury (Kirsten Dunst) did. It is a gorgeous, almost transcendental performance, and in a movie that treads far too many clichés of the romantic sports comedy it is Bettany – and almost Bettany alone – that makes “Wimbledon” worth seeing.

Shame, really, for both the nearly unknown Brit and “Spider-Man” superstar Dunst have an engaging, effortless chemistry that’s a joy to watch. But to what end? As written by Adam Brooks, Jennifer Flackett and Mark Levin “Wimbledon” is a cavalcade of sports movie highlights cribbing freely from “Tin Cup,” “Bull Durham” and even “Pat & Mike.” There is nothing here we haven’t seen before, and as the movie builds to its championship conclusion it’s hard not to notice that everything going on is a forgone conclusion.

Not that Colt’s story isn’t endearing. A journeyman player currently ranked 118th in the world, the tennis pro finds his game improving by leaps and bounds as he makes his way through the rounds at the titular tournament. Reason: He’s entered into a torrid, sexually adventurous affair with American phenomenon Bradbury, and what begins as a casual fling slowly twists into much, much more as both players inch closer to the final round.

Of course, once Colt starts winning everyone in England wants to know what is going on, this 32-year old never-been suddenly the country’s best chance to win their own tournament for the first time in over 60 years. With the media hounding him, Bradbury’s father (Sam Neill) trying to nix the affair, his agent (Jon Favreau) pressuring him to sign endorsement deals before he’s aced out and his own brother (James McAvoy) betting against him, Colt knows only one thing: He’s in love, and Lizzie is the girl of his dreams.

The problem is, as good as the two leads are – I love how Dunst has the confidence and charisma to put her own superstardom aside and play second fiddle to Bettany; she’s wonderful – the script and acclaimed director Richard Loncraine’s direction doesn’t do them any favors. There is no momentum, odd for a sports film, and where Loncraine has shown a gift for depicting the dynamics of human emotion and conflict in movies as diverse as “Richard III” and HBO’s “The Gathering Storm,” he’s at a loss here. The tennis scenes, save for the gloriously exciting final match (forgone conclusion aside), are a bore with none of their verve, life and, yes, bounce despite all the director’s visual trickery. These sequences are a bore, Loncraine knows it, and he ends them as quickly and with an abrupt, disconcertingly jerky suddenness.

Maybe that’s a good thing, for whenever he chooses to focus on the lovesick pair of pro athletes the film takes flight. When Bettany and Dunst are on screen together “Wimbledon” elevates its game going to a place that – while familiar – frothily entertains. And, as I said before, Bettany commands attention like a superstar. Whether it is enjoying the friendly advice of training partner – and fellow tour journeyman – Dieter Proll (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau), punching cocky American Jake Hammond (Austin Nichols) or talking to himself before each and every serve, there is nothing about this performance that doesn’t click.

If only the same could be said for the rest of the cast. Not only does Loncraine waste the talents of Neill and Favreau, he sticks the gifted “The Lord of the Rings” veteran Bernard Hill with a father role so far beneath him its almost a travesty. The actor does what he can, but the contrived conflicts going on between himself and Eleanor Bron are too trivial to believe, each treating the other like eccentric hippies lost in a haze of British stiff upper lippedness. But they at least give it their best shot, which is more than can be said for Nichols. I can’t tell if it’s the screenplay or if it his nonexistent acting that does him in, a sneery smile the best the youngster can do to develop character. Only Coster-Waldau rises above the fray in the supporting cast delivering a performance of surprising warmth and restraint, the genuine friendship between himself and Bettany ebulliently palpable.