Blithe Romance Is No White-Knuckle 'Flight' By Rita Kempley Washington Post Staff Writer Friday, January 22, 1999

Helena Bonham Carter and Kenneth Branagh go off in "The Theory of Flight." (Fine Line) Director: Paul Greengrass Cast: Helena Bonham Carter; Kenneth Branagh; Gemma Jones; Holly Aird; Ray Stevenson Running Time: 1 hour, 38 minutes Profanity, nudity and sexual situations

The film follows the eccentric escapades of a flighty London artist (Kenneth Branagh) in search of inspiration and the feisty, wheelchair-bound lovely (Helena Bonham Carter) who becomes his heart's tenant and muse. Together they rise above her illness and his fecklessness.

Bonham Carter's Jane, light of bone and angel fair, might simply float away if she weren't so determined to stay on Earth just a bit longer. At 25, she is in the final stages of Lou Gehrig's disease. Unable to walk, feed herself or speak clearly, Jane is determined to lose her virginity before she dies. And she wants Richard (Branagh), an impoverished painter who becomes her caretaker, to do the honors.

Although he acknowledges that "for a cripple, she is quite fancy-able," Richard simply can't bring himself to do the deed. So the couple embarks on a search for a man to do the job. Naturally, the life-affirming high jinks bring them closer and lead them to sweet, if not completely unexpected, rewards.

An all-too-coy tale of two made whole by one another, "Theory of Flight" remains a classic case of boy meets girl. It's clear from their very first squabble that Jane and Richard are meant for each other. It's just as apparent that they are not going to live happily ever after, but that a triumph of the spirit is in order. Jane, so pale and frail, meets her misfortune with dry wit and stiff upper lip that ought to be an inspiration to us all.

Truth be told, Bonham Carter's Jane is well nigh as spunky as Meg Ryan's bubbly shopkeeper in "You've Got Mail." Although she curses, shoplifts and wants to do the nasty, the woman is a saint. Bonham Carter clearly did her homework on the effects of Lou Gehrig's disease, and she tackles the role with the same kind of wrenching dedication that Daniel Day-Lewis brought to "My Left Foot." She's gone a long way toward breaking out of the English drawing room to which she has long been confined.

Branagh, disarming as the daft and boyish artist, also appears relieved to be freed from his customary period trappings. For some reason, his character is obsessed with building a biplane out of found objects and re-creating the Wright Brothers' first flight. Why, we never know for sure, and seemingly neither does Branagh, though he does bring enormous tenderness to his dealings with Jane.

"The Theory of Flight," directed by documentary filmmaker Paul Greengrass, is never maudlin. In fact, the tone is artificially, absurdly blithe. Greengrass, working from first-time writer Richard Hawkins's script, is so leery of appearing manipulative that he never allows either the film's hero or its audience so much as a sniffle. No need to put on your seat belts. It's not a bumpy ride.