Featuring the songs of Dan Mangan. Written and directed by Amiel Gladstone. At the Cultch’s Historic Theatre on Wednesday, September 30. Continues until October 10

What’s the soundtrack for the movie of your life?

For the two lovers in Are We Cool Now?, it’s the music of local indie troubadour Dan Mangan. His folk-rock songs—by turns wistful, cynical, weary, and achingly beautiful—have already earned many accolades in the music world; their stellar reinvention here is cause for celebration.

Writer-director Amiel Gladstone’s young lovers are intentionally generic (her: restless explorer; him: stuck, passive man-boy) but fleshed out with idiosyncratic details—they can both roll their tongues, she has a tattoo of an ex-lover’s face on her back—and their experiences are rooted in contemporary hipster consciousness: they argue about Ren & Stimpy, and in Berlin they attend a party in honour of a taco truck.

In the first act, this quirkiness fits neatly into a sense of the universal comedy of falling in love: “You’re using ‘I need to tell you something’ on a first date?” the guy asks incredulously. But the second act feels more like a series of standard plot points being ticked off, as the relationship carries on longer than is credible.

That’s partly due to a lack of chemistry between the performers, who introduce themselves by their real names (the fourth wall is fluid here). Ben Elliott is charming as the young man who’s too fearful to change his life: when he confides in us about having “the most adult thought of my life so far”, we feel the vulnerability beneath the cool slacker pose. But Penelope Corrin’s emotionally flat acting doesn’t match his complexity.

What their courtship lacks in spark, however, is more than made up for by their musical alchemy. Corrin is a terrific, soulful singer, and her harmonies with Elliott on many of the songs are pure ear candy. Elliott and musical consultant Veda Hille deserve huge credit for their inventive arrangements—using everything from kazoos to a glockenspiel—of Mangan’s songs, mostly from his breakthrough album, Nice, Nice, Very Nice, which Gladstone deftly weaves into the narrative. Elliott’s interpretations foreground the self-deprecating wit in Mangan’s lyrics, like “Wasting my time wishing the world would fuck off/At least then I could be bitter.” Anton Lipovetsky’s guitar and bass and Spencer Schoening’s percussion seamlessly drive the rhythm.

Lauchlin Johnston’s set—touring cases pushed together to make a platform with risers, music stands covered in photos—is dynamic and flexible, suited to the many locations in Gladstone’s playfully minimalist staging.

The story may not leave a lasting impression, but for the uninitiated, this is a great introduction to Mangan’s music. For those who are already fans, it’s a triumphantly fresh take.