I adore Rachael Leigh Cook's movies; she's reliably warm and delightful, like the cozy sweater of rom-coms. But this one? This one felt like an itchy, overpriced wool turtleneck that you convince yourself will be cute, only to realize it's just suffocating and makes you break out in hives.
Let's start with Megan. She was tough to root for. She had a superiority complex that could probably be seen from space, and her dynamic with her sister, Izzy, was less of a loving sibling relationship and more of a cautionary tale. Izzy, bless her chaotic heart, was a full-blown train wreck, and instead of truly growing on her own, she just got steamrolled into becoming a watered-down version of Megan. And then went back to old patterns when the poo hit the fan.
Their mother, meanwhile, was an odd mix of neglectful and overly indulgent, coddling Izzy while keeping Megan at arm's length. Then, in a whiplash-inducing twist, she and Megan had a moment of reconciliation so rushed it was like the movie suddenly realized it was running out of time.
And let's talk about Megan and Dominic. Or rather, let's not-because whatever was supposed to happen between them barely qualified as chemistry. Watching them interact was like watching two strangers awkwardly make small talk in an elevator. The sparks were nonexistent, and their romance had all the passion of a lukewarm cup of tea that someone forgot on the counter.
I am that someone.
There were a few decent moments, mostly thanks to the supporting cast, who at least attempted to inject some humor into the script. But even their best efforts couldn't save this movie from being a cringefest of epic proportions.
Also, and I say this with love: Megan desperately needed therapy, especially after the death of her father. I can say this with full authority because my dad died, and therapy is, quite frankly, incredible. If only someone had handed Megan a business card for a good grief counselor, we all might have been spared this cinematic struggle session.
