Are you rooting for the hottest people you know? Like, do you ardently want them to go on fabulous trips and eventually find love? That is the sincere hope of the new film Anyone but You, a romantic comedy that pairs Glen Powell and Sydney Sweeney—surely two of the hotties of the moment. If you prefer your rom-com leads more in the approachably good looking vein, you will have to look elsewhere.

Anyone but You, directed with flair and dashes of wit by Will Gluck, works hard to earn your affection. Its glossy aesthetics—gorgeous locations in Sydney, Australia; bright and crisply tailored costumes; massive spreads of styled-to-the-gods food that might make even Nancy Meyers blush—are much appreciated at a time when so many movies look cheap and flimsy. Gluck adds little embellishments of quirk and character where he can, elevating the film above its boilerplate contemporaries. And of course there are Powell and Sweeney, mugging and preening away, luring us in with their swimsuit bods and radiant smiles.

Powell employs the same rakish charm you’ll see in better climes in next year’s Hitman, while Sweeney dispenses with the histrionics of Euphoria to play a more grounded human being—certainly not the girl next door, but someone down the street, at least. Do they have chemistry? Not exactly. But they’re trying, tasked as they are with filling the frame of a theatrically released studio film.

Eventually, though, Powell’s cocksure strut begins to grate more than it seduces. A lot of Sweeney’s line delivery is strangely flat; she seems drowsy, distracted. It doesn’t help that the plot mechanics creak and clank far louder than anyone’s talking.

Loosely based on, or at least inspired by, Much Ado About Nothing (a play by some theater guy), Anyone but You concerns misunderstandings and deceptions. Powell’s Ben and Sweeney’s Bea meet cute at a Boston coffee shop, go on one of those long and rambling and perfect dates that only happen in the movies, and then have a sexless sleepover. But Bea, perhaps fearing true connection, sneaks out in the morning. Ben is hurt and says some mean things about Bea when she is still within earshot.

Thus these would-be fledgling lovers become mortal enemies, forced to coexist when Bea’s sister gets engaged to the sister of Ben’s best friend. There’s a destination wedding in Australia (can you imagine getting that invite? I would laugh very loudly and then throw the card right in the trash), and Ben and Bea don’t want their antipathy to ruin things for everyone. So they decide to fake being a couple, to keep things harmonious and to make Ben’s ex jealous. (And to keep Bea’s parents off her back; she’s just broken an engagement to a man of whom Bea’s folks are quite fond.)

It’s both a lot of plot and very little plot at all. The complications introduced could be much more easily and rationally solved if anyone thought about anything for just a second. Ben and Bea’s motivations and backstories are given barely any attention; we know approximately four specific details about each of them, and that’s it. They are but functionaries of the plot, which bounces along at an entertaining enough clip, pausing on occasion for a brief, humorous digression.

The best of those digressions involve an Aussie himbo played by Joe Davidson, an affable good-times surfer whose Australianness is exaggerated to funny effect. Bryan Brown is a hoot as the father of one of the brides, and it’s always nice to see Rachel Griffiths (as one of the moms), even though she is forced to use an American accent in her own damn home country. (The brides, played by Alexandra Shipp and Hadley Robinson, are plenty likable too.) There is stuff to enjoy here, but it’s hard to be invested in the central relationship.

There’s not enough friction, not enough tension between difference and similarity. Neither character is scrappy, neither is an underdog, neither is believable in their insecurity. They are golden gods playing at being regular people—even when, yes, Powell’s physique is constantly commented on and Sweeney is given a variety of shape-hugging outfits to wear. The movie has to acknowledge that these are hot people, but it also wants us to find them relatable. Anyone but You struggles mightily in that task.

Would the movie be better with anyone but them? It’s possible. Some other actors might make better use of the stunning settings, of the enviable clothing, of the agreeable, game-for-anything supporting cast. But the script would still be a problem, in all its miss-the-mark jokes and tortured construction. Anyone but You is undoubtedly a cut above most rom-coms we’ve been served in recent years, and its many efforts to feel big and luxe do not go unnoticed. But it’s curiously unromantic and is only clever in fits and starts. If the movie were to approach me at a coffee shop, smug grin gleaming away, I’d probably only commit to a fling.