What If they made another movie about extravagantly quirky urban white twentysomethings? What if it took place in a loving version of Toronto that somehow still felt exactly like Brooklyn in every other movie in living memory about the same subpopulation? What if it starred Harry Potter, all growed up and able to drink beer, opposite a grimly chipper, moon-faced hipster mannequin? What if they had virtually no chemistry to speak of? What if Daniel Radcliffe (who isn't picking the most interesting projects - that'd be Emma Watson - but is certainly showing himself to be the rangiest of the Potter series' former child stars) is okay, though he's blandly likable and forgettable at best, while Zoe Kazan is actively irritating, a beaming embodiment of idealised girlishness who compounds the screenplay's frivolous characterisation by projecting such a shallow, uncomplicated range of emotions?

What if these two characters who are difficult to like separately end up colliding in the most absurdly precious way? What if they banter in the most forcibly self-aware tones about things like novelty food and the fecal matter found in corpses? What if it feels somewhat what two young people trying desperately to seem clever and witty in front of each other might actually talk like? But what if doing a good job of copying the way that horrible, irritating people behave in real life only leaves you with horrible, irritating characters?

What if this unpersuasive non-chemistry distracts in no way from a generic romcom that owes its themes, though neither its wit nor its insight, to When Harry Met Sally... and its study of how a platonic guyfriend secretly really wants to date his platonic galfriend? What if it all but comes out and brags about that debt by centering an important early scene around The Princess Bride, by WHMS director Rob Reiner? What if it's at least satisfying, in a comfort food way, to reacquaint oneself with all the tropes of the romantic comedy genre, horrifyingly ubiquitous as recently as ten years ago, but virtually non-existent these days? What if a film's outrageous predictability in all elements of its plot, with the secretly faithless boyfriend and the caustic best friends offering terrible advice and the horrible misunderstanding that happens four-fifths of the way through, actually ends up feeling a little bit rewarding in a kabuki-esque fashion?

What if, on top of its other problems, a film's characters have made-up bullshit lives and work at made-up bullshit jobs and feel like no human beings who have ever lived and breathed as a result? What if a movie presents its female lead as a successful animator who just can't quite decide if she wants to take up that awesome promotion that's being flung at her repeatedly, entirely ignoring the grim reality that women in animation face some of the stiffest institutional sexism in the arts? What if the male lead writes electronics instruction manuals and it literally doesn't matter in the least, but somebody - screenwriter Elan Mastai, maybe, or the authors of the source play - decided that sounded like a fun, wacky job, so in it went? What if the male character is, in fact, defined solely in terms of his relationship to the opposite sex, both at the level of individuals and at the level of the entire gender, like some sort of desperate anti-Bechdel bid at equality through making everybody shallow and awful?

What if the female lead - whose name is Chantry, which I've been putting off typing, because it's the most made-up bullshitty thing in the movie - constantly fantasies about her art, some sort of angel representation of herself, flying across the buildings and walls around her? What if it suggests, while you're watching it, that she might be schizophrenic? What if having a schizophrenic female lead would actually make the film a hell of a lot better? What if just the simple expedient of scrapping the dire "magical" animated interludes would make the film a hell of a lot better?

What if a film made clear through its saucy, raunchy dialogue that its characters are super self-possessed about sex and in command of their bodies, but then demonstrates through its scenes and its visuals - a kind of important element of a visual medium - a shy, grade schooler's ambivalence towards and terror of sexuality? What if it needs to bury its libido in stupidly contrived "truth or dare" scenarios involving changing rooms and picturesque, moonlit skinny dipping?

What if, right next to the stupid cutesy-poo A-plot centered around stupid cutesy-poo characters, there was a really fantastic pair of supporting characters? What if these characters, played by Adam Driver and Mackenzie Davis, had all the casual, comfortable chemistry that Radcliffe and Kazan so patently lack? What if they evinced the sweaty, sticky lust and doe-eyed love that makes theirs seem like an actual, functioning, vital relationship, making the performative dance between the leads seem even most incredibly chaste? What if the whole time, you just sit there thinking, "I could be watching that film. That film would be terrific"?

What if, despite all of this, the film was still moderately charming, owing in some part to Michael Dowse's feather-light touch? What if it never rounded the corner to "funny", but still somewhat often managed to nail "wry"? What if the whole thing is clearly trying much too hard, but in its earnest, sloppy way is impossible to hate, the way it's impossible to hate an ugly dog? What if it's stupid but harmless? What if its virtually complete detachment from lived human experience means it's not remotely memorable, but its sweetness of spirit at least keeps it from being a slog?

Then I would give that film a rating of 6/10.