The Wedding Ringer review: buddy-buddy vomit larks from beginning to end

If you were seeking distraction while enduring the latest, largely awful movie to feature the word "wedding" in its title, you could ponder what it means for the US. The Wedding Ringer couldn't really come from anywhere else in the world. Plenty of other countries produce comedies this relentlessly moronic (Ireland for one), but the preposterous central premise – Kevin Hart rents himself out as best man to friendless bozos – is tailored for a country that offers a service industry for all everyday dilemmas.

None of which is to suggest that the film ever reaches the level of social satire. The Wedding Ringer deals, from beginning to end, in buddy-buddy vomit larks of the earthiest water. Archetypal useless schlub Josh Gad is about to be married to a blonde lady who seems – to use the language of these things – way out of his league. For reasons only half-explained, he invents an entire community of idiot buddies that Hart and his hastily assembled posse – ex-cons, sex workers, non-specific sociopaths – are then required to impersonate.

The partnership between Gad and Hart is tolerable, if grimly familiar: yet another uptight nerd having his inner funk loosed by an African-American firecracker. Kevin has the ability to bellow without grinding the nerves. Josh embraces the sentimental denouement with admirable enthusiasm.

What a shame the film-makers have developed only an hour's worth of proper comic business. There is, in The Wedding Ringer, a constant sense that the talent is mugging to fill up the yawning minutes. Erm, let's have a football game between the generations. How much more time to fill? Let's have this dog assault the hero's privates? Still not done? Let's set Cloris Leachman on fire. Will this do? Yes? Thank God that's over.