Young Werther is your surprise new favourite. Just don't judge by the poster

Despite what they say, it sometimes can be useful to judge a book by its cover.

Consider the illustrations of Johann Wolfgang von Goeth's 1774 epistolary novel The Sorrows of Young Werther: tragic scenes drawn by artists so taken by the story of unrequited love and death that they joined a craze, itself so pervasive it came to be dubbed "Werther fever." 

These oppressively sad vignettes that often adorn the book do a wonderful job of communicating what's inside: depressed, yet well-dressed young men crying out to the heavens, their graves surrounded by repentant mourners — or, in the more bluntly efficient examples, showing them literally dead in a bed. 

But in the case of Young Werther, it would probably be best to throw that assumption right out the window. 

First off, if the "cover" in this metaphor is the book used by Canadian writer/director José Lourenço in his film adaptation, we're already far off base. Young Werther is more of a riff than an adaptation, operating in step with the fan-fiction craze that in many ways also got its start with Goethe.

The alternate perspectives and endings (dubbed "Wertheriads") that flooded the literary market following its publication weren't made to simply retell the original — far from it. There and here, writers used the drippingly maudlin tale of a spurned lover who dies by suicide as a starting point for their own imaginings. What if the doomed Werther and Charlotte lived happily ever after? Try The Joys of Young Werther. What if instead of Werther's side of the story, we got Charlotte's? Here's The Letters of Charlotte. 

And for those thinking: Why can't a reanimated corpse both mirror and revere the romantic tale of an underappreciated sentimentalist driven to tragedy? Well, could I interest you in the part of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein where the monster weeps over how awesome and cool Werther and his book are, like a teenager listening to The Black Parade for the first time?

Likewise, Lourenço's Wertheriad tries its own tack: What if instead of an 18th-century dandy, Werther was that inexplicably rich unemployed 20-something on your feed — on his third world trip, seventh gap year and ninth paragraph in an Instagram post explaining his 12th new and expensive hobby?

As exhausting as that sounds, this bittersweet rom-com is actually something more promising. Again comparing covers, there is a surprisingly original, subversive and honest heart beating under the surface — despite a frankly ghastly poster suggesting trite, pre-packaged streaming fare. 

It positions Douglas Booth as our titular hero — this time an aimless if endlessly energetic writer without much actually written, full of ambition that goes as quickly as it comes. Sent to Toronto by his mother to pick up an ugly yet valuable statue from an avuncular, condom-hating relative (The Kids in the Hall's Scott Thompson), he's quickly sidetracked. Spotting the coldly alluring Charlotte (Alison Pill), he uses his boundless self-confidence and charisma to worm his way onto the guest list of her birthday party. 

There, love blooms. The two chat, waltz and swoon toward a kiss before predictable romantic disaster strikes: Charlotte reveals she's engaged. To a pretty great guy, too: the handsome, rich lawyer Albert (Patrick J. Adams) who — luckily for Werther — is a little bit more obsessed with his work than with his fiance. 

For the few who bothered to read the book, breathe a sigh of (relatively) spoiler-free relief: Lourenço uses the source material as little more than a light frame to hang his new characters. The wellspring is one we return to, perhaps too frequently though.

The inside literary jokes include the blue coat and yellow-beige pants the character is known for, and the tongue-in-cheek references toward the absurdly schmaltzy narrative of the original. (One of the best comes after Werther is asked if he's about to do something drastic: "What is this, 18th-century Germany?")

Manic pixie dream boy

But in bringing the colonial era's saddest sack incel up to the modern era, there's a considerable hurdle in making Werther at least halfway likable. 

Here Booth has his work cut out for him. Taken at face value, this Werther is among the most annoying cinematic ghouls in recent memory. He's a sort of realistic manic-pixie-dream-boy character that confirms just how annoying it would be had Garden State's Natalie Portman actually forced you to blurt out nonsense sounds in her bedroom. He's a manifestation of all of Charlotte's worst drives, undermining her happiness in order to inflate his own. 

Like so many other "living for the day" characters, Werther is a selfish and impulsive hedonist who smashes through the functional-if-difficult lives of others only to bat puppy-dog eyes in meaningless apology. He is a virus looking for sympathy, somehow believing his clinical self-indulgence is a revelatory gift to everyone working a 9-to-5 just to survive in the everyday hell of our 21st-century reality. 

The solutions here are twofold: first, Booth is something of a serial expert on the literary film. Something about his delicate bone structure and preoccupied air has made him a believable enough historical bauble to run through roles as Pip in BBC's adaptation of Dickens' Great Expectations, to Romeo in 2013's Romeo & Juliet, to And Then There Were None, Christopher and his Kind and even a turn as Percy Bysshe Shelley in Mary Shelley — the very man who helped inspired Mary to put Werther in Frankenstein in the first place. 

It's through that strength Booth is able to exhibit a seemingly magic ability to make Werther's unbearable tendencies seem endearing. Paired with Pill's quietly believable desperation — and small but impressive performances by Charlotte's sister Sissy (Iris Apatow), friends Melanie (Amrit Kaur), Paul (Jaouhar Ben Ayed) and Thompson — Young Werther's relationships and chemistry are more than enough to elevate the story. 

The second achievement is all Lourenço's. Instead of the self-pitying melancholy that caused media-inspired copycat suicides to be referred to as "the Werther effect," there is at least the nugget of self-awareness in Young Werther. The tone is indeed lighter: a kind of depressed, Technicolor twee that Canada may soon find itself defined by, given both this and Bilal Baig's phenomenal Sort Of. 

But more importantly, Lourenço doesn't let Werther off the hook — a refreshing turn from a lazy writerly habit.

Take the recent A Real Pain: there, writer/director/star Jessie Eisenberg recasts the road trip formula of Planes, Trains and Automobiles, Tommy Boy, Due Date and a million others. Instead of the uptight straight man learning to cut loose and live a little, Eisenberg depicts his manic, never-tied-down firecracker co-star as just as burned-out, regretful and occasionally cruel as the guy who focuses on building up a 401(k).

Young Werther accomplishes something similar, infusing the story with a complicating air that, similar to something like Peter Weir's 1985 Witness, or last year's Anora, is satisfying specifically because of how much is left unsaid and unfulfilled.

That's a lot to ask of a first-time feature. And though it's in no way perfect, Lourenço absolutely succeeds in delivering more than expected.

Just don't judge it by the poster.