Oh, dammit! Amy Adams’s undeniably perky charm and Matthew Goode’s dreamboatalicious combination of scruff and blue eyes, WHY MUST YOU EXPLOIT ME SO?!?
Even in poster format, me and my inner teenage girl don’t stand a chance to your magnetic appeal. Even in poster form, I can see Leap Year for exactly the sort of rote, cliched romantic comedy filled with the same easy jokes and formulaic twists years and years and years of movies just like you have supplied eager audiences like me. You may be entirely lacking the holy screwball trinity of Katherine Hepburn, Cary Grant, and a leopard named Baby; but I’m pretty certain that you and me and a pint of Häagen–Dazs vanilla swiss almond would make a perfectly suitable trifecta on a Saturday night.
And your trailer, Leap Year? I’ve got freakin’ second sight with this:
Wait. Maybe I don’t! This trailer has already telegraphed the entire plot, all the way up to the climactic moment in which Amy Adams must make a choice between the man she thought she loved and the man she actually loves because they shared a car trip through the Irish countryside and an opportunity to ogle each other’s naked bits through a shower curtain–you know, real love stuff. I mean, sure, I’ve seen dozens of facsimiles of this story, but how will this one end? Will there be a false climax where Amy makes the wrong decision (Wes Bentley’s Doppelganger), or will we go straight to the actual climax with her making the right decision (He Who Smells Like Irish Spring)? If she makes the bad decision, only to then realize she’s made the wrong decision when she sees the look of romantic defeat on Matthew Goode’s face, will her inevitable run to find him before it’s too late involve a train, rain, or both? LET’S PLAY A LOVE GAME AND FIND OUT.
Also, let’s just acknowledge the big, fat Carolina-Liar-esque elephant in the trailer room: Snow Patrol’s “Just Say Yes” is the swelling, anthemic ballad that’s dragged its Gossip-Girl-soundtrack-approved hooks right into my fake ovaries, so basically this post is just a Coldplay ballad away from making me pregnant with fake triplets:
Whoops! Tin roof rusted!