When the news emerged two years ago that Belle & Sebastian's album God Help The Girl was going to turn into a fully-fledged, presumably awfully polite, movie musical, my response was something like this: 

That's because I'd rather watch a five-hour Skrillex performance featuring live cage-fighting, documented by Uwe Boll, than subject myself to the sort of twee-isms that such a project would entail, but far be it for me to expect my oh-so precious tastes in musicals to be respected *puts on tin-foil hat* and the wheels of production ground slowly and delicately into gear. 

The official synopsis followed the narrative originally set out by the 2009 album of the same name: 

A girl named Eve, who is in hospital due to emotional problems, starts writing songs as a way of getting better. Songwriting becomes her way forward, leading her to the City where she meets James and Cassie, two musicians each at crossroads of their own.

B&S' Stuart Murdoch was at pains to describe the project as a "pop musical" (to set it apart, presumably, from noted "alternative musicals" about young people in love, like State Fair, Hairspray and Grease).

As you can imagine, I was quietly pleased when the film had its first airing at Sundance this year and Indiewire's Rodrigo Perez described it as: 

Most egregious is just how painfully uncinematic “God Help The Girl” is, perhaps a blasphemy when it comes to the form and function of the musical. You’ve never seen such an incredulously nonndynamic explode-into-song musical sequence as the one that features Browning and Alexander singing in a 8x10 box of a bedroom. 

And now, our first look at the film has arrived: 

Look, the Wes Anderson set will probably love the thing (and I am sure Emily Browning's at least pleased to expunge the memory of Sucker Punch with this opportunity to be as non-threatening as possible). 

If for some reason my rage against the twee-machine seems odd to you, I encourage you to read James Parker's essay from the June issue of The Atlantic, "The Twee Revolution", and see if you come away from it feeling pro-twee or anti-twee:

I had seen it before, this fond curiosity, this acclamation of the undercooked, but never so much of it in one place: the whole event seemed to exult in its own half-bakedness. Be as crap as you like was the message to the performers. The crapper, the better. We’re here for you. I tottered home, wrote a homicidally nasty nervous breakdown of a review, and decided I should take myself out of circulation for a while. No more live reviews until I calmed down. A wave of Twee—as I now realize—had just broken over my head.

Over the course of a few years, and by way of appreciating Marc Spitz's book Twee: The Gentle Revolution in Music, Books, Television, Fashion, and Film, Parker errs on the side of pro-twee. 

I remain steadfast in my rage. The rest of you can enjoy the cavity-inducing God Help The Girl when it is unleashed on the world in a couple of months.