Since every romantic comedy these days needs its uptight priss, said duties are fulfilled here by Adams. She plays a Boston lass named Anna who goes beyond the standard-issue control freak to being truly unpleasant. When not working as a 'stager' (someone who pretties up homes and apartments for real estate agents to show off), Anna obsesses over when her cardiologist boyfriend of four years, Jeremy (Adam Scott), is going to propose. Having decided it's not going to happen, Anna feels out of options.
But just in the nick of time, John Lithgow pops in for all of three minutes (perhaps he got lost on his way to the airport) to play her half-soused father and tell a story that provides the film with its dimly flickering purpose: Supposedly, every leap day in Ireland, it's tradition for women to propose marriage to men. Instead of simply doing this in America, Anna decides to wait until Jeremy is in Dublin for a conference and then fly over there to surprise him and pop the question. Lo and behold, complications arise.
The film's would-be Bogart to Adams' Hepburn is Declan, played by Matthew Goode, a tall dark rake of a fellow who has brought a cunning mix of warmth and danger to earlier, standout roles in Watchmen and A Single Man. Here, he is able to muscle a little life into some of the film's less tired scenarios, but a rougeish grin can only take one so far. Declan is the proprietor of the cardboard-quaint backwoods Irish pub/hotel full of loveable old sorts in cloth caps clutching pints o'lager (is there any other kind?) that Anna washes up at one night in the beginning of her Planes, Trains, and Automobiles-esque journey to Dublin. After much arguing, Anna hires Declan to drive her to Dublin. They bicker, he makes fun of her Louis Vuitton luggage, she wrecks his car, he sneaks a peek at her showering, they crash a wedding, she throws up on his shoes, and suddenly
cardiologist boyfriend doesn't look so good to Anna anymore.
If predictability were Leap Year's only sin, then it wouldn't have been so offensively turgid. But Deborah Kaplan and Harry Elfont's direly unfunny and almost anti-romantic screenplay doesn't seem to miss a single trick in the screenwriter's handbook of hand-me-down clichés. Perhaps it was written on a dare? Or maybe everyone had a few weeks off and wanted to go to Ireland? There must be a reason somewhere for this film's existence, but it sure is not to be found on the screen.
