Editor’s Note: The following review contains some spoilers for Last Christmas. Read with caution. (I mean, I don’t spoil the whole thing. I’m not a monster…it just depends on how spoiler averse you are.)

Pulling off a twist in a film is an art form. In a perfect execution, the clues were there all along—tiny breadcrumbs that we could’ve followed, if only we’d been astute enough—but we missed them. But in Last Christmas, the clues are not so much breadcrumbs as enormous blinking signposts. People literally guessed the twist off the trailer. I can’t tell if writer Emma Thompson and director Paul Feig think we’re dumb. Or if they figure we’ll see the film because of the twist.

Look, it’s no mystery why anyone would attempt to make a Christmas film (or song or TV show). Strike a chord with the public and you’ll be rolling in those royalty checks for life. (For all her wealth and success, Mariah Carey probably makes more money off of “All I Want For Christmas is You” than any of her other songs combined.) The Christmas Industrial Complex is real, y’all.

So I can see how all the pieces came together for Last Christmas: A Christmas setting (our heroine works as an “elf” at a store that sells enormous quantities of Christmas kitsch), the irresistible music of George Michael, in particular his big Christmas smash, “Last Christmas,” comely rising stars Emilia Clarke and Henry Golding, and an extremely explicit message of loving your fellow man (and kicking Brexit to the curb). And yet…Last Christmas feels ill-conceived from the start.

It starts with the chemistry between those aforementioned beautiful stars—or lack thereof. It’s not even the actors’ faults. Golding’s Tom is a man of mystery, not so much wooing Kate (Clarke), our sitcom wreck of heroine (she sleeps around, eats too many burgers, can’t find a place to stay, is adorably clumsy, etc), as encouraging her to embrace her second chance at life (she is the recipient of a heart transplant). He dances around London like a modern-day Gene Kelly, always telling Kate to “look up” and notice the city’s secret birds and gargoyles and architectural wonders. He disappears for long stretches of time. He doesn’t want to sleep with her. He’s a manic pixie dream celibate.

When the trailer for the film came out, Twitter immediately guessed what Tom’s deal was and, while I won’t ruin it here, suffice it to say, they pretty much nailed it. But the film’s twist actively works against the film, because Tom’s “deal” is the very thing that keeps him and Kate apart.

As for the rest of the film, everything is presented in such a way as to squeeze out maximum “awwwws.” Kate’s boss at the Christmas kitsch shop, nicknamed Santa (Michelle Yeoh) is a gruff woman who gives Kate grief while secretly having maternal affection for her. Santa is wooed by a man who is dumbstruck at the very sight of her and lurks outside the shop waiting for a glimpse of his beloved. (This is meant to be charming, but is actually kind of creepy.) Encouraged by Tom, Kate begins to volunteer at the local homeless shelter—a place where all the homeless are clean and grateful and twinkly-eyed. Kate’s problems in her Croatian family—an overbearing mother (Emma Thompson), a father who is tired of his wife, a sister who is gay but afraid to tell her parents—can all be neatly resolved in a happy Christmas pageant montage at the end. I will admit that Thompson’s mother, who sings off-key Yugoslavian dirges at inopportune times, is the funniest part of the film, but still not funny enough to make up for this dud of a script (sorry, Emma).

Last Christmas tries so darn hard to warm everybody’s heart and get us in the Christmas spirit. The film is so well intentioned, it’s impossible to hate. You don’t want to give it a bad review so much as rap it on the nose with a rolled up newspaper.

There was a time, right before he had that quintuple bypass surgery, that Dave Letterman had grown complacent. I’d always been a huge fan of his show, with its gleefully anarchic energy, but the spark was clearly gone; he was going through the motions. After he got back from that near death experience, however, he seemed to have a new lease on life—and a new appreciation for the blessings of his career. The show got good again.

That’s why the premise of Mindy Kaling’s Late Night is so plausible. It’s about Katherine Newbury (Emma Thompson), the female host of a late night talk show who is in a rut but doesn’t quite know it. She ends each show by saying that she’s “honored” her audience chose to watch her, but the truth is, she takes her audience for granted. What’s more, she’s a cold, remote, and altogether terrifying boss to her frattish crew of white male writers. After being accused of “hating women” by a writer she’s just fired (he had the temerity to ask for a raise), she demands that her showrunner (Dennis O’Hare) commandeer a woman for the writers’ room. Somehow, the completely inexperienced Molly (Kaling)—she works at a chemical plant where she cracks her coworkers up with chemistry puns—is the lucky recipient of this diversity hire.

Needless to say, Molly is regarded with skepticism and even disdain by her co-writers. And then, before she even has a chance to settle in, Katherine gets the bad news from the new network president: she’s going to be replaced at the end of the season with a lowbrow, sexist, Dane Cook-esque comedian. Katherine is stunned. She thought she was still on top of her game and that the show untouchable. Then her doting husband (John Lithgow) breaks the news that the show has been coasting for years.

Of course, you can imagine what happens next: Molly injects a new, youthful, and inclusive perspective into the show and encourages Katherine to be more “real” in her monologues. Katherine resists at first but eventually begins taking Molly’s advice, with some success. She also notes, with a grudging admiration, Molly’s extreme work ethic. At the same time, Katherine is a deeply unsentimental woman (she calls her writers by arbitrarily assigned numbers, not their actual names), so don’t expect a touchy-feely buddy comedy to break out quite yet.

As Katherine, Emma Thompson is wonderful: Imperious, imposing, fabulous, casually cruel—and yet somehow, we still root for her. This is the genius of Thompson’s performance—and Kaling’s script—she shows us just enough of Katherine’s humanity for us to care. We also know that the odds are stacked against Katherine—even in this fictional, fantasy universe, she’s the only female late night host in the game. Even Katherine’s haircut (a chic pompadour) and fabulous wardrobe (men’s-tailored suits in bright red, cream, and gold) reflect her ambivalence about her own gender. If Katherine is part of the paradox of successful women in their 50s, who often have to act more masculine to succeed, Molly is part of the new generation of “lean in” young women who embrace feminist politics.

Late Night is at its best when it focuses on the inner workings of late night TV. It does a great job of conveying the neurotic, competitive rhythms of the writers’ room, and the unique pressures of working for an exacting boss. And most of its jokes are funny—or at least credibly funny for a late night host—especially when Katherine hits the street and becomes a self-appointed “white savior,” hailing cabs for young black men (whether they want one or not).

Where the film falters is around the edges, as it attempts to shoehorn in not one, but two romantic subplots for Molly. At first, she hooks up with the staff’s resident lothario (Hugh Dancy), but eventually is drawn to head writer (Reid Scott), who initially resented Molly but ultimately comes to admire her. Honestly, neither of these relationships feels particularly fleshed out or necessary. At the very least, she should’ve focused on just one.

In general, Late Night could’ve dug deeper. It flirts with big ideas about women in the workplace and women in power, but doesn’t fully develop them. Even the relationship between Katherine and Molly could’ve been more substantial (it’s missing a signature scene like the famous cerulean blue monologue from The Devil Wears Prada). And Kaling can’t quite shake some of her old sitcom habits (Molly is fond of reciting self-help aphorisms to herself and pastes a cheesy “Never Give Up” poster next to her desk.)

Still, warts and all, Late Night is smart, snappy, and altogether winning entertainment. If Emma Thompson and Mindy Kaling form some kind of unlikely new comedy team, I’ll be first in line for their next film.