Sitting through the trailer for a new Sandra Bullock romantic comedy when halfway through, something odd happens. Her typically cutesy-eccentric character is revealed as a dangerous neurotic, trailed by a literal manifestation of her assorted personal demons. People around her die for reasons she can't quite understand, torn to shreds by this creature whose existence she doesn't, or perhaps can't, acknowledge. But she'd better come to grips soon, for the ultimate target is Bullock herself, targeted for destruction by her own intense self-loathing.
I made all that up, of course. My imaginary movie might have been halfway interesting, and I think it's safe to say Bullock will never appear in a movie of any interest whatsoever. She's the queen of the prefab romcom, making even Kate Hudson's string of notoriously awful starring vehicles look like serious studies of the human heart by comparison.
Exhibit A:
Exhibit B:
I mean, seriously: Could these look any worse? Every plot development, every character arc can be safely predetermined, the movies as stultifyingly predictable as the music deployed in these trailers. (I'm guessing even Randy Bachman himself never wants to hear Takin' Care Of Business again in this lifetime.) Yeah, there's some level of comfort to be found in formula entertainment, but that's only if the formula is executed with a certain flair. But these are clearly cases of hackneyed premises unfolded with grim determination, unbearable agony for all but Bullock's staunchest fans, assuming she still has any.
Unfortunately, I've dated women with copies of both Miss Congeniality and Miss Congeniality 2, so I know all too well that this fan base exists. I just don't know why.
