License To Wed

Just when you think that in Evan Almighty, you’ve got the most pointless ‘comedy’ of the summer out of the way, along comes R***n W******s to stink up the place. Sadly, License To Wed, a gallimaufry of poor taste, inconsistent plotting and unappealing characters, isn’t even hateful enough to inspire some cathartic fist waving. In fact, once you’ve grown used to the sight of its star in priestly garb with an, ahem, altar-boy sidekick in tow, the film settles into a ploddingly familiar rom-com groove.
Mandy Moore, who really ought to know better, plays a highly-strung Catholic girl who dreams of marrying her recently acquired beau, John Frasinski in the usual vulgar fashion. In order to blow a sum equivalent to the GNP of a medium-sized African state while walking down the aisle, the young couple agree to participate in a pre-marital bootcamp run by Father Frank (Williams). To the dismay of the groom-to-be, Frank’s regime demands no sex, the bugging of their apartment and some seriously hardcore stalking. The bride, meanwhile, remains bafflingly tolerant of the situation, which leads to a falling out, which leads to a make-or-break moment, which leads to, well, you probably know the rest.
Characteristically for a wedding-in-jeopardy movie, License To Wed trades in bald gender stereotyping. Mandy Moore frets if the pistachio coloured napkins will clash with her ivory frock. John Krasinski can’t write his wedding vows because, he’s like, a dude. Interfering friends and assorted busybodies position themselves accordingly. “That’s men for you”, paraphrases Christine Taylor’s world-weary divorcee over and over. Then, just to put the icing on this particularly rancid cake, the entire cast find themselves in Jamaica. Will Mr. Williams lapse into a cod-Rastafarian accent? You bet. Where’s a License To Kill when you need one?