Never mind whether she's being slobbered on by a Labrador, boning Clive Owen on a train, working as a maid, physically assaulting Vince Vaughn, or leading a hippie lifestyle with a pet ferret, Jennifer Aniston will forever be Rachel-from-'Friends'.

Even now — wearing a R100 000 wig, taking style tips from Susan Boyle and as a travelling salesperson peddling those pictures that pass for art in hotel rooms — there's little real difference. Same bitchiness. Same controlling streak. Same insecurities.

But nobody warned Mike Cranshaw (Steve Zahn), a sweet but desperately lonely night manager at his parents' motel in Nowhere, Arizona. So when Jen checks in and catches his eye, he gives her the VIP treatment — a bottle of cheap plonk served in plastic cups — in a misguided attempt to, uhm, touch her butt. Unsurprisingly, she barely gives him the time of day.

To the childishly-enthusiastic underachiever that's just part of the challenge. And as she starts sending off seriously mixed messages, the 40-something who really should know better starts following her around the country. Some might call it stalking. But to the jaded (and surprisingly selfless) Jen, Mike's puppydog innocence is strangely appealing.

It's an unlikely romance involving long bus journeys, four months at a Buddhist temple, suicidal skydiving , Chinese restaurants, and a punk-turned-organic-yoghurt-mogul.

Clearly the intention is to emulate the slightly oddball yet intimate style of 'About Schmidt' and 'Sideways' director Alexander Payne, but the results are varied. Certainly there's enough offbeat charm — the zany but ever-lovable Zahn has little trouble winning you over — and some of the more inspired plot developments are truly unexpected and out there.

Less so is the overarching story — so inconsequential it can be summed up in an "elongated" haiku — revealing the characters for what they really are: all surface, no feeling. Blame the writing, blame the actors, but there's a gaping hole where the film's heart should be.

'Management' relies in equal parts on sweeping Hollywood gestures and small indie conventions, but gets neither quite right.