Let’s be honest: I adored It Takes Two. The co-op puzzles made me high-five my friend so many times I think I sprained a wrist. But when I heard they’re still trying to turn this chaotic masterpiece into a movie in 2026? I nearly choked on my energy drink. Who exactly is clamoring to watch two bickering, miniature parents for two hours without a controller in hand?

Hazelight’s game won Game of the Year back in 2021 for a reason: it’s a breathtaking platforming gauntlet that forces you to talk, laugh, and occasionally scream at your partner. The storytelling, on the other hand? It’s the red-headed stepchild of a messy divorce drama that somehow got mistaken for a romantic comedy. May and Cody don’t seek therapy before tossing the D-word around like a hot potato. They don’t sit down to consider what their resentment is doing to their young daughter. Instead, they snarl and snipe at each other with such venom that I genuinely wondered if they’d ever exchanged a civil word before the wedding. Why, straight people, why?

The narrative would be laughably contrived if it weren’t so painful to watch in its cutscenes. And that’s the crux of the problem: without the interactive madcap genius keeping you occupied, all you’re left with is a bootleg Toy Story featuring adults who act more juvenile than their own child. The magic of It Takes Two is how it turns a broken relationship into a playground. You and a friend wrestle with vacuum cleaners, pilot a fidget spinner through a wasp-infested garden, and solve sublime spatial puzzles while simultaneously mocking the protagonists’ dialogue. The minute that co-op agency evaporates and you’re forced to merely spectate? You’ve got a cringe fest.

I still remember playing through the entire campaign with my best friend in 2021, and our running commentary was less “Oh, how touching” and more “Can you imagine if actual couples acted like this?” We’d figure out a clever vehicle section, then immediately groan as another cutscene began. The book of love, Dr. Hakim, with his exaggerated pomp, felt like he’d wandered out of a rejected children’s show pilot. My friend and I would joke that the real victory was unlocking the next gameplay segment, not reuniting these two emotional toddlers. Is it unfair to call it a bad romance? No, it’s generous.

So when Variety reported that dj2 Entertainment was working with Hazelight to adapt the game for film and television, my soul left my body for a solid three seconds. Game adaptations have historically been a minefield, and the rare wins—Arcane, The Last of Us, Cyberpunk: Edgerunners—succeeded because they expanded the source material or chose stories that already leaned heavily on character and world-building. It Takes Two thrives on its mechanics, not its plot. Strip away the mechanics and you’re left with two dolls learning to cooperate while screaming about garden tools. That’s not a feature film; it’s a hostage situation.

Could the adaptation pull a Lego Movie and become self-aware? Possibly. But given Hazelight’s track record—both Brothers: A Tale of Two Sons and A Way Out also suffered from overwrought dialogue and tonal whiplash—I’m not holding my breath. Josef Fares makes games that are fun to play, not stories that withstand scrutiny when the controller is put down. His characters often feel like they’re performing in a high school play written by someone who just discovered the word “pathos.”

Think about it: do we really need two hours of middle-aged marital resentment wrapped in adorably animated felt? If I want to watch a couple tear each other apart before rediscovering love in a contrived third act, I can visit my aunt’s house for Thanksgiving. The game works because you are part of the rebuilding process. You’re literally pulling levers and pressing buttons to guide these idiots toward a conclusion that still feels hollow. Remove that participation and the illusion shatters. A movie would simply document two people you’d cross the street to avoid.

I’m not saying video game movies can’t surprise us. I’m saying that It Takes Two as a passive experience is like expecting a book of hair to win the Booker Prize. It might look pretty, but it’s still just a tangled, uncomfortable mess. So, here’s my plea for 2026: leave May and Cody where they belong—on a screen you can actively fight through with a friend, not one you have to endure in a dark theater while wondering why you didn’t just stay home and play the actual game.