At Wimbledon's Centre Court, the men's singles finalists emerge, Dan Maskell's commentary sets the scene, and the heartaches (ie. flashbacks) begin. Finalist Martin, we learn, likes having sex beside Mexican swimming-pools with MacGraw, the wealthy designer he rescued from a burning car; but she keeps jetting to the side of her Italian millionaire/yachtsman (Schell), who in turn seems to be quite into his glamorous secretary. The soapy plot is so incredibly old-fashioned that it might be forgiven if the script didn't keep hitting so many lines straight into the net: exchanges like 'How old are you?' - 'Don't ask' are only matched by unashamedly pulpy love scenes ('Tell me everything...like how you got so beautiful'). A pity, because the tennis relationships, including a cameo from Pancho González, ring far more true; and the last set of the Wimbledon final, when we are allowed to get to it, comes close to Hollywood adrenalin-pumping at its best.