Those who are looking for another “Cats”-level catastrophe of a Broadway-to-Hollywood musical are going to have to look elsewhere. “Dear Evan Hansen” is not nearly as outrageous as “Cats,” perhaps to its deficit.

At least the film adaptation of “Cats” will go down in history for its nightmarish imagery and campy subject material, much like other infamous box office failures —1995’s “Waterworld” or 2003’s “Gigli,” to name a few. The legendarily bad taste of those movies stands in contrast to “Dear Evan Hansen,” which could be lost to history as soon as the Razzies announce their dubious winners.

There is, however, one striking similarity between “Cats” and “Dear Evan Hansen”— its misguided casting. Headlines have been quick to cling onto 28-year-old Ben Platt reprising his Tony Award-winning role as Dear Evan Hansen’s titular 17-year-old protagonist. To be clear, every criticism of this poor decision is valid. Evan Hansen gets nervous before asking his classmate to sign his cast, he gets bullied while using his high school locker and he has a habit of sitting criss-cross applesauce. Not only is it cringy to watch a fully grown Platt navigate these clichéd perils of an awkward childhood, it is plainly bizarre. Platt clearly contains an impressive vocal talent, but those vocals alone are not nearly enough to save the movie, or even his own performance.

The rest of the cast’s performances were similarly bleak with the exception of Julianne Moore, who plays Evan Hansen’s mother. The legendary actress could unsurprisingly hold her own in the face of directing and writing so rote that it seemed almost auto-generated. The other legendary actress in the mix, Amy Adams, is not able to do the same as Moore. Unfortunately, after the desperate Oscar bait that was “Hillbilly Elegy” and “Woman in the Window,” an inconsequential thriller from this summer, “Dear Evan Hansen” can now be considered Adams’ third bad movie in a row.

The storyline in “Dear Evan Hansen” attempts to tackle a variety of serious social issues. Unfortunately, these innately human social issues (the cruelty of teenagers, the complexities of mental health and the economic dynamics of family life) are largely avoided in service of a melodramatic, overly-romanticized plot that drags on for about 45 minutes too long.

The avoidance of any real social discussion or observation is paralleled in the production design of “Dear Evan Hansen.” The camera often follows the characters as they walk through their high school’s hallways, passing posters that encourage queer pride and state “Black Lives Matter.” Not once does the dialogue dare touch identity politics. After all, the story arc is already bogged down by enough half-cooked subplots as is. Still, these posters come across as a meaningless aesthetic choice. Like when Bumble offers its heterosexual dating app users to the choice to identify as LGBTQIA+ allies or when suburban white people post Instagram infographics about redlining.

Throughout the mess, there are a few sporadic and welcomed tonal shifts. One of which is an early musical number involving Evan Hansen’s only friend, Jared Kleinman (played by Nik Dodani). Jared provides comedic relief both during the musical number, and whenever else he receives screentime, by portraying two stereotypes at once (simultaneously a glasses-wearing Indian kid in AV club and the sardonic sassy gay friend) and Dodani’s smart-alecy performance harkens back to the days of “Glee.” The Ryan Murphy-created television series built a legacy on using musical numbers to explore teenagers’ involvement in tense social issues and break down the identities of characters like Jared Kleinman. Reaching for laughs instead of tears and stretching its clichés into pure camp, “Glee” was an imperfect but highly-entertaining masterclass in high school melodrama. The longer it took “Dear Evan Hansen” to inch through its sappy final act, the more I began to miss the pop music thrill of “Glee.”