Movie Nation

“Diets” have been around since the 16th century, but the tie-in to fitness is a more recent phenomenon. In the UK, “fit” became shorthand some years back for someone thin, not heavy, a euphemism for skinny and thus attractive.

That in turned has spawned a smart and sympathetic push-back documentary, “The Body Fights Back,” a film that looks at body dysphoria, body type biases and the ways they’ve worked themselves into the culture and even into medicine.

The cleverest thing about Marian Vosumets’ film is how it pricks the viewer’s prejudices as it introduces us to an assortment of British folk with all-too-typical relationships with food and potentially unhealthy attitudes about body image.

The people we glance at and see “Well, she’s thin” or “She used to be fat and isn’t” or “He’s so fit he’s a walking muscle” aren’t the healthiest folks Vosumets interviews on camera. We learn that this self-described “big” woman is a TV spokesmodel and that “thin” woman has a nearly wrecked body or has been hospitalized with eating disorders.

And that Rory fellow who consumes calories for bulk and muscle building? He’s prone to “last supper” bingeing and gorging. I learned a new word. “Bigorexia” is a catchier way of saying “muscle dysmorphia,” something young men fall into — obsessive working out and dieting to build that “perfect” body.

We hear from experts such as a psychotherapist, a surgeon, a body image researcher, nutritionists and others who talk about the dieting-industrial complex, media image normalizing of standards of beauty and the class divide in terms of the quality of food people can afford to consume.

“You want us to be healthy,” cracks plus-sized model and influencer Mojo, then “why isn’t everything organic?”

An expert opines that “What started out as…let’s just take better care of ourselves really quickly turned into something horribly destructive.”

It’s unsettling hearing healthy, middle class people talk about living in “malnourished panic,” following Rory as he rock climbs, lifts weights and consumes seven tiny meals a day, how he’s made “a religion out of counting calories.”

The film’s shortcoming is brushing past all the “healthy” counter-arguments often shouted-down as “fat shaming” today, the epidemic levels of early onset heart disease, diabetes etc. No, it’s not your job to comment on somebody’s weight and appoint yourself the diet police in pursuit of some unnatural “norm.” But nobody should fool themselves about the risks, lifestyle and lifespan limitations associated with excessive weight either.

Tenisha, a native of Dominica, recalls the culture shock of of moving from the Caribbean, where “the thicker you are, the more celebrated you are,” to an island where “thin is in” has been the rule since Twiggy.

“The Body Fights Back” gets at the psychology of “food as a friend I could turn to that would make me happy,” lets us hear repeatedly from a weeping, guilt-ridden parent who now understands and acknowledges her part in her daughter’s anorexia, and sees people moving on with life with a more positive body images that give their stressed systems a break.

Kind of makes you wonder who “The Biggest Loser” really is.

MPA Rating: unrated, near nudity, profanity

Cast: Mojo, Hannah, Rory, Tenisha, Imogen, Michaela

Credits: Scripted and directed by Marian Vosumets. A Gravitas Ventures release.

Running time: 1:46

There are EIGHT credited screenwriters for “Major Grom: Plague Doctor.” You know what they call that in Mother Russia and its satellite state of Kentucky?

SOCIALISM.

Imagine a “Batman” in which Alfred the Butler is the real caped “crusader,” a masked vigilante fighting the injustice of a corrupt city. Tell that creep’s story from the point of view of the rebel cop, Major Grom, hunting this “villain/hero,” a gadget-loving goon who calls himself “The Plague Doctor,” and you’ve got this two hour and twenty minute goulash of an action comedy.

It’s not credited as a comic book on the disastrously-redesigned IMdb, and I didn’t see Netflix acknowledge that either. But it is. You can tell, and not just from the title, which ineptly suggests the titular “hero” is both Major Grom AND the Plague Doctor.

No. Major Grom is the recurring character and hero. The Plague Doctor is his latest toughest foe. Better translation of title? “Major Grom vs. The Plague Doctor.”

It’s an over-the-top bore about an over-the-top /no-rules cop (Tikhon Zhiznevskiy) who chases down clown-masked bank robbers on foot — they’re in a van, spilling rubles all over St. Petersburg. He almost dies — we think he has — in that opening caper. But inside the coffin or out, he’s got a job to do.

Because SOMEbody is killing off Russia’s legions of unreachable, politically-protected villains — a callously drunken son of an oligarch, a fatcat polluter, rich and corrupt this, rich and venal that. Yes, to the West, THAT guy sounds like the hero.

The Plague Doctor (Dmitriy Chebotarev) posts his executions online on this new, free-speech and privacy-protecting social media site. The twist? He’s the deranged, self-righteous underling of the tech genius (Sergei Goroshko) who founded that social media network. And tech mogul is threatened into silence by that murderous, vigilante underling.

Major Grom has to fend off firing threats by his commissar-sized boss (Aleksey Maklakov), the clinging “trainee” (Alexander Seteykin) who insists “We’re PARTNERS,” and the social justice warrior and rebel online reporter Yulia (Lyubov Aksyonova) whose scoops are making the inept, trigger-happy cops look bad.

The funniest bits are in the police station itself, a milieu where factoids like “one in five people in detention are here by mistake” and one suspect complains (in Russian with English subtitles, or dubbed, “Seriously officer, we don’t go to jail for domestic violence in Russia!”

Hilarious.

The script is otherwise just nonsense-in-motion. The set-pieces are noisy, messy deployments of Bugs Bunny Physics that aren’t the most exciting or visually coherent chases/fights I’ve ever seen. The best of those is a clever montage of Grom kicking down doors all over town in an “I need INFORMATION” fury.

“Who ARE you, a superhero?”

No, just a comic book one. And afairky bland one at that. He is Riggs in “Lethal Weapon” with a cute cap and no edge. None.

In abler hands, this vigilante “Doc” could have been that rarest of creatures, the villain with a sympathetic point of view. Magneto in Russian, avenging himself on a kleptocracy and the Gremlin in the Kremlin who rules it.

But no. Again, eight screenwriters, plus the actor weighing in.

Perhaps the Russians should stick to that which their cinema is famous for — brooding romances, laments for the long lost glories of communism, and fake viral videos. This comic book adaptation thing evades them.

MPA Rating: TV-14

Cast: Tikhon Zhiznevskiy, Alexander Seteykin, Sergei Goroshko, Aleksey Maklakov and Dmitriy Chebotarev

Credits: Directed by Oleg Trofim, script by Vladimir Besedin, Evgeny Eronin, Artyom Gabrelyanov, Aleksandr Kim, Roman Kotkov, Nikolay Titov, Oleg Trofim and Valentina Tronova. A Netflix release.

Running time: 2:16

“Downeast” is an indie thriller so simple as to be elemental.

It’s about a small town under the thumb of a local gangster, a crime long-ago covered-up and heroin headed for Boston’s rough and ever-so-Italian “North End.” The setting, the frosty lobster port of Long Island, Maine, just gives it a lived-in feel.

The Long Island depicted in the movie is a place “the young people” flee, so that there’s nothing left but lobstermen and the waterfront bars where they drink the chill off.

The first man we meet is the guy who “runs” this place. “Every town is built on bad decisions,” Kerrigan (Judson Mills, a “Walker, Texas Ranger” survivor) narrates. “And I built this town, brick by brick.”

He sees himself as being the lifeblood on Long Island, bringing in money, controlling not only the street trade but the trans-shipment of drugs down to Boston.

Tommy (Greg Finley) might’ve been a contender, once upon a time. He doesn’t box anymore. He works his dad’s boat, the Wild Irish Rose. And he pours the old drunk (Gareth Williams) into his pickup after every night’s beer-and-many-many “bumps.”

His old crush, Emma (Dylan Silver) is back in town. But their history isn’t a happy one. He’s just one of many locals who “didn’t talk” when her brother died, years before. And now, as he’s finding wrapped packages of drugs in his father’s lobster traps and facing new questions from Emma about what happened to Mikey, past and present are about to hit him all at once.

Finley, of “Blackjack: The Jackie Ryan Story,” came up with the story for “Downeast.” He plays a character pressed from all sides, the guy who hears or overhears every pithy line various bad guys mutter.

“Sometimes a man’s gotta do what he doesn’t want to do.”

Mills has the chewiest part, with writer-director Joe Raffa (“Dark Harbor”) stashing him away for use in scenes where he has the most impact, unloading almost every quotable line on Kerrigan.

“You can shear a sheep many times, you can only skin it once,” he counsels his minions, who need to keep their supplies of drugs and anxious customers alive to keep consuming them.

The biggest problem with being the big fish in this very small pond? “There’s always a bigger fish” in the bigger pond nearby.

The story clips along, never feeling rushed, never letting its over-familiar elements overwhelm its chief virtue, that setting described in the title — Downeast.

The resolution is entirely too pat, the romantic complications more detailed than you’d expect or that seems absolutely necessary. But if you like your thrillers compact and geographically distinct, “Downeast” delivers the goods.

MPA Rating: unrated, graphic violence, drug content, profanity.

Cast: Greg Finley, Dylan Silver, Judson Mills, Gareth Williams, Joss Glennie-Smith, Joe Holt and Kirk Fox

Credits: Scripted and directed by Joe Raffa. An APS release.

Running time: 1:29

A24 picked this up, it played at Cannes, and looks wonderful — an expansion of Kilmer’s recent breezy autobiography.

“Secret Magic Control Agency” is an animated comedy that works up its own “wizarding world” for a fanciful spin on alternate lives for fairytale siblings Hansel and Gretel.

The animation is polished 3D/CG, with tactile, pliable plastic-looking humans and dogs, candy and cookie characters and settings and a candy-coated color palette.

Laughs? Not really. It’s aimed at very young children, so “cute” is about as far as it goes. But as time-killers go, it’s harmless.

Gretel (voiced by Sylvana Joyce), is a top agent with the titular agency, an organization that licenses and monitors all the magicians, potions and “tricks” in the kingdom. She’s the one Agent Stepmother (Georgette Reilly) puts on the case when the pastry-loving king (Marc Thompson) is kidnapped.

But Gretel can’t find him and the magician who kidnapped him with “black magic” on her own. Agent Stepmother decrees that she arrest and work with her wayward “charlatan” brother, Hansel (Nicholas Courtney Shaw).

They set off, bickering like siblings, in search of clues. There is an…accident, in a potion storage facility. Their job gets tougher because they’ve reverted to childhood.

The crone in the woods Baba Yaga (Mary O’Brady) who was nearly their downfall in the “traditional” version of the fairytale must be questioned. If they can avoid her stock pot.

“Kids, pretty plump and TASTY.”

But if they work together, maybe the evil Ilvira or Elvira (Erica Schroeder) will be foiled and the king will make it back to the palace in time for his sugar rush birthday.

Talking cupcakes, gingerbread soldiers, candy cane pillars and icing icing everywhere make up the design. There’s a gadget guru who offers the team magical classes and “anti-stray” pebbles (stones that light up and keep you from losing your way back home).

Inside gags include that potions room, a repository of “real magic” where the Sword in the Stone and Aladdin’s lamp are kept under lock and key. “Transformations” pop up here and there as the story meanders about, adding characters and critters and middling set pieces.

The most “adult” joke is a “don’t forget to rate your rideshare.”

“Harmless” is what you hope for in a 6-and-under cartoon, and this one passes that test — the characters (if not the voice cast) are a moderately diverse lot.

The animation isn’t on a par with the Big Leagues, nor is the story or the passable-but-nothing-extra voice acting. It’ll play as dull to all but the youngest, least discrimination viewers.

If you need a Netflix babysitter, that’s about all “Secret Magic Control Agency” is good for.

MPA Rating: TV-Y7

Cast: The voices of Sylvana Joyce, Nicholas Courtney Shaw, Alyson Leigh Rosenfeld, Bella Hudson, and Marc Thompson.

Credits: Directed by Aleksey Tsitsilin, script by Analisa LaBianco and Vladimir Nikolaev. A Wizarts production for Netflix.

Running time: 1:45

An old woman is tormented to death and her tormenters are lured into dialing her up in her grave as punishment in “The Call,” a thriller so derivative it gives “derivative” a bad name.

It’s another “face your personal nightmares” tale, another script inspired by “Long Distance Call,” a “Twilight Zone” episode and somewhat less interesting than any other movie by this title — and there’ve been a few.

Chester Rushing plays Chris, the “new kid in town,” who arrives at Willow Falls High School in mid-school year, and under a cloud. But flirty Tanya (Erin Sanders) doesn’t know that. She invites him to join “tough guy” Zach (Mike Manning) and his obedient brother Brett (Sloane Morgan Siegel) for a night at the carnival, with a little added “fun” to finish off the evening.

Tanya’s little sister disappeared years before, and she blames the day care operator who last saw her. Let’s go over and toss bricks through her windows!

The old woman, played by horror legend Lin Shaye, confronts them, refuses to back down and rages “As much as you hate me, I hate you more.”

But she’s suffered from this sort of judgment and abuse for years, and the love of her husband (horror legend Tobin Bell) isn’t enough to placate her. She takes her life.

So the husband summons the kids to the house for a proposition. Go upstairs, make a call to a number he’s provided, and stay on the phone for a full minute. They have to do this one-by-one, but the payoff for anybody sturdy enough to last that long is $100,000, which was seriously money back in 1987.

The catch? Mr. Cranston installed a landline to his late wife’s grave. If anybody answers, “You don’t have to worry about me,” he whispers.

The quartet of kids will have face the terrors of their childhood, conventional but horrific, each in their own way. Will they survive revisiting those during “The Call?”

Shaye plays the harassed woman with her usual (limited range) panache, and nobody whispers propositions or threats like Mr. Jigsaw himself, Bell. The rest of the players? Meh.

Shaye and Bell lift this thin, over-familiar material, but not enough to compensate for the trite terrors that turn up, the dead spots in the narrative and cardboard characters one and all are saddled with playing.

Don’t leave a message, don’t answer the phone, don’t make “The Call.”

MPA Rating: unrated, violence, profanity

Cast: Chester Rushing, Erin Sanders, Mike Manning, Sloane Morgan Siegel, Tobin Bell and Lin Shaye

Credits: Directed by Timothy Woodward Jr., script by Patrick Stibbs. A Voltage, a Shudder release.

Running time: 1:37

You don’t have to be into the art rock/glam rock/proto-punk synth pop pranksters Sparks to get a kick out of “The Sparks Brothers,” the definitive documentary history that fanboy Edgar Wright created in their honor.

The director of “Shaun of the Dead,” “Scott Pilgrim vs. the World,” and “Hot Fuzz” is enthusiastic enough for all of us. And in this playful, insightful and thorough film — it’s two hours and twenty minutes long — that enthusiasm is contagious.

What Wright does — in telling us the story of Ron and Russell Mael, quirky Californians who blew up in Europe and never quite got there in North America — is let us share his and other generations of Sparks fans the delight of discovery.

In the ’70s and ’80s, most of us ran across Sparks the same way — on TV. “Oh, the band with Hitler on keyboards. You have GOT to see this!” Legions of their fans, from Wright and Mike Myers to Jane Wiedlin, Weird Al Yankovic, Fred Armisen, Flea and Beck, recount their encountering this “eccentric,” “mysterious” and “quite interesting, but you can’t quite put your finger on it” duo.

Many of us gave their odd art-rock/glam-act processed-vocals tunes a listen, a laugh and a pass. But others, many of them giving on-camera testimonials here, took the tack that early producer Todd Rundgren embraced.

“It’s this weird? Isn’t this great?”

The Maels? They just kept on changing, trying new styles, almost always ahead of the musical curve as they did it. They started out as the Halfnelsons (not their first band) sounding a lot like The Kinks, with a Zappa/Captain Beefheart sensibility. And every year or three, they’d evolve into something new, always with these satire-centric stage performances that played up Russell’s pop star handsome face and songwriter/keyboardist Ron’s ludicrous Fuhrer look.

That became their mystique. Actor Jason Schwartzman appears here and declares he doesn’t want to see this movie because he wants to preserve that mystery, but he “will see it, because I’m in it.”

That play-it-as-a-lark tone fits the music, appearing on LPs with titles like “Kimono My House,” “A Woofer in Tweeter’s Clothing” and “Angst in my Pants” (25 albums, over 500 songs in all). And it matches the movie, which uses comical moments from their stage shows, clay stop-motion animation, archival footage and fresh interviews to tell their story.

The songs can be deep, were often ahead of their time, and wryly comment on their pursuit of rock/pop stardom and just what it’s all about, this “business” of a music career that started in the ’60s and continues to this day approached through “creative recklessness.”

The suggestion that Sparks needed to make “music you can dance to” prompted them to cook up “Music That You Can Dance To,” described by British DJ Jonathan Ross as “a perfectly crafted sell-out pop song. — except that it isn’t.” Sparks could work in many a pop idiom, master it and mock it all at the same time.

They changed record companies constantly, and with every change, the backing band changed. Many of those musicians appear here, cheerfully grateful for their place in this story, not terribly resentful at their interchangeability.

In “Dick Around,” when singer/frontman Russell sings Ron’s lyrics, “All I do now is dick around,” he’s speaking a truth, ridiculing the fact that he’s letting us look behind the curtain, and celebrating the fact that guys their age (guys in their ’70s) still get to do just that — record, perform, put a lot of effort into repetitious tunes that sound like no effort at all.

They grew up on films, went to UCLA and at various points almost made movies with Jacques Tati (“Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday”) and Tim Burton (an adaptation of the manga “Mai”), and finally have one coming out this year (“Annette”). That should top their screen debut, as an amusement park band in the ’70s bomb “Rollercoaster.”

But they needn’t fret over their legacy and whether, as a “cult band” they’ll be remembered. Wright has paid the ultimate fan homage to Sparks here, a movie so adoring and infectiously fun that they’ll live on in the “music films” queue, later the “classics,” when it finally arrives on Netflix for as long as there is a Netflix.

Cast: Russell Mael, Ron Mael, Todd Rundgren, Jane Wiedlin, Giorgio Moroder, Pamela Des Barres, Mike Myers, Weird Al Yankovic, Jason Schwartzman, Beck, Flea

Credits: Directed by Edgar Wright. A Focus Features release.

Running time: 2:20

Here’s one of the side benefits of spending a lifetime in journalism — learning to listen, paying attention to not just what people you’re interviewing say, but how they express it.

And if you don’t stop at merely taking notes, but record the conversations, you don’t just hear them once. As you’re transcribing someone’s exact words to quote them accurately, or editing audio for a broadcast interview, you hear the music of speech and the way people actually talk.

So when you hear a film character remark, “Not even in death did he show up,” you wonder if you’ve stumbled into a vampire movie, if the actress blew a line or if cinematographer turned writer-director Emily Skye has never listened to the other half of a conversation in her life.

The dialogue she cooks up for her half-cocked debut, “River,” is some of the most trite, atonal and English-mangling I’ve ever had the burden of reviewing.

And since she has her heroine, River (Mary Cameron Rogers, not awful) talk almost incessantly in that laziest of storytelling tropes, “voice over narration,” line after line of pointless banalities and inane cliches and verbal crutches and the like, that’s pretty much all you need to know about “River,” which takes its title from the Carolina woman who comes home after her mother’s death and sort of picks up the life she left behind a year before.

We hear “take ownership of your life” and “I just want you to live a full life…don’t be like me,” and “It’s OK to grieve” and “just take it day by day” and “a year is a long time” and “We love you, Riv, and we’re here for you.”

“Why does everyone here keep TELLING me that?” “What does that even MEAN?” Still, in my voice-over I know, “I can DO this.”

River takes up with her old BFF Amanda (Alexandra Rose), goes back to work for the rural locally made jams and notions shop, run by a licensed psychotherapist (how handy) played by Courtney Gains.

And she flirts with the idea of taking up with her old beau, Jamie (Rob Marshall), who just got engaged.

All of which point to her being a tad off in the head, which is engineered into the “story” because this is no-budget science fiction. As in River disappears for a week with no idea what happened to her. As in her friends pick up on her walking blackouts. As in River never saw “Fire in the Sky,” but her writer-director did.

The leads are competent, with a few wincingly-obvious exceptions. But this dull, tin-eared script, a trite story leadenly told, never gives them a chance.

Drown this one in the bathtub.

MPA Rating: unrated, PG-13ish

Cast: Mary Cameron Rogers, Alexandra Rose, Rob Marshall and Courtney Gains

Credits: Scripted and directed by Emily Skye. A Gravitas Ventures release.

Running time: 1:32

“Meander” is a tense torture porn parable about a tormented soul further tormented and tortured when she’s kidnapped and held hostage in the most elaborate hamster-maze ever conceived.

If you let yourself get caught up in the logistics of how this maze was conceived, financed and built, and by whom, you’re kind of missing the point. But it’s easy to do. This is what Jigsaw would have cooked up with Bezos money and Musk tech.

I found it indifferently interesting, not remotely as gripping and visceral as say “Buried” with Ryan Reynolds stuffed into a coffin, or even “Rupture,” with Noomi Rapace trying to scheme her way out of a kidnapping.

Gaia Weiss plays Lisa, a French expat whom we meet on the road — literally. She’s a waitress, lying on a remote side road, as if waiting for somebody to get her life over with.

The Range Rover driver who picks her up (Peter Franzén) asks a lot of questions, says he’s a night watchman because “I don’t like people.” And then Lisa wakes up in a knee-and-elbow-padded sci-fi jumpsuit, with a wrist bracelet that serves as a light, a timer and we assume tracking device.

She’s in a dimly lit cubicle, barefoot, with no one answering her screams. But a sliding door opens, a crawlway is revealed, and she exits, starting down this or that shaft, led along like a mouse being manipulated, facing barbed wire and pathways that narrow or open up, ceilings that close down on her like a trash compactor, doors that clang open and shut, threatening to lop off a limb. And then there’s the acid and even fire.

She stumbles across a sizzled corpse, silently absorbs the idea that there’s alien tech that can fix her injuries so that she can proceed, and cheats death in its many forms. Otherwise, the movie’s over, right?

Writer-director Mathieu Turi’s settings point us to a fairly obvious solution and fairly early. Beyond the solution to the puzzle, there’s minimalist design, high-tech “traps” and a “ticking clock” that isn’t explained or dwelled up, a wasted plot element in a movie sadly in need of more urgency.

Weiss is a somewhat compelling heroine/surrogate for the viewer. But as the clues to her situation, the meaning of the “parable” at the heart of this torture chamber test and her “solutions” to the deadly dilemmas she’s presented with here play out, I found myself more curious than gripped by suspense, more impressed by the production design than invested in Lisa or by the “tests” she faces.

“Meander” abandons the reality it serves up for something instantly graspable as surreal. You make that leap, and the threat of fire, acid, assault by fellow “inmates” and the like grow less interesting with every passing minute.

It becomes a screen thriller you mentally set aside, like a puzzle with insufficient challenges to ever be worth tackling again.

MPA Rating: unrated, graphic violence

Cast: Gaia Weiss, Peter Franzén

Credits: Scripted and directed by Mathieu Turi. A Vertical release.

Running time: 1:30

“Twee” is a seriously small target to aim for in a romantic comedy, a real “go twee or go home” gamble. And when you swing and miss? Ouchie.

“Love Type D” is an ever-so-slight, daft but deflatingly-so Britcom that never quite gets the job done. A little charm, a little bittersweet humor born of hurt, but writer-director Sascha Collington and star Mauve Dermody can’t find the sweet spot, can’t make this somewhat promising premise come off.

Dermody (“2:22”) is Frankie, an Aussie transplant muddling through her days as a cubicle drone in a London firm that produces instruction manuals. She’s never been that lucky at love, but in Thomas, a fellow she met a year ago, she thinks she’s found a winner.

Then he sends his much-younger stepbrother (Rory Stroud), a posh, polite little nerd always in his Blackfriars School uniform, to dump her. He gives her the “You’re a wonderful person” and “wasn’t really looking for a relationship” and “awfully busy” speech.

“What kind of grown man sends a ten year-old child…”

“Actually, I’m 11.”

Alas, love is illogical. He’s also the “kind of grown man” she cannot get out of her head. Phone messages and showing up at his apartment aren’t going to give her closure or satisfaction. Stalking little Wilbur when she spies him going into a jewelers gives her the answer. “Too busy,” “not looking for a relationship,” Thomas (Oliver Farnworth) has taken up with somebody else, an astronaut who happens to be “hotter.”

So he lied, two-timed her and sent his kid stepbrother as his break-up proxy. Why is Frankie still obsessed with him? It turns out she’s a tad too accustomed to this sort of rejection. It turns out that Wilbur, whom she hassles, confides in and consults, has some answers. There’s this research company that has discovered the “Type D” gene, the one that predicts whether you’ll be the “dumper” or the “dumpee” in life. Wilbur’s read up on it.

Frankie finagles a way to be tested, finagles a way for her fellow cubicle drones to be tested and discovered that most everybody she knows is destined for “a life of celibacy” and “hobbies.” But perhaps there’s a way to “cure” this. Of course, Wilbur has some theories.

That adorable set-up is the vehicle for a lot of lame flashbacks in which Frankie remembers every bloke who ever dumped her — the motorcycle “rebel,” the “musician” who wrote an “I could do better than you” song about her that went viral. Frankie needs to track these fellows down.

Schemes involving hypnosis and communing with the dead offer a chuckle here, a wince there.

A movie that structurally resembles Nick Hornby’s “High Fidelity” manages a cute moment or two, mainly in the scenes where a “grown woman” is taking advice — medical and personal — from a child. I laughed out loud once, and that required the distribution of elephant pheromones and Frankie’s attempt at being a sexy, sultry lounge singer.

The star’s likable enough. The germ of an idea is here. They’re aiming for the correct tone, but neither the script nor the players land on the “twee” bullseye.

MPA Rating: unrated, seriously PG, barely a hint of PG-13

Cast: Maeve Dermody, Rory Stroud and Oliver Farnworth

Credits: Scripted and directed by Sasha Collington. A Vertical release.

Running time: 1:35