Marketed as The Hangover for women, and it worked about as well as that one did, which is to say I got a lot of laughs. It’s fully as raunchy and gross, but I think it has a better heart. The guys were on a bachelor party. The girls are preparing for a big wedding, a nightmare that so many women convince themselves will be the most magical moment in their lives. Even if things go moderately well, the stress is enormous, as is the potential of a nervous breakdown over the tiniest error. It must be perfect, goddam it! This being a comedy, naturally everything is a disaster of Katrina dimensions.
Maya Rudolph is the future bride, Kristen Wiig (also co-writer) is the best friend from childhood, destined to be the Maid of Honor. But it’s complicated by the appearance of Miss Perfect, Maya’s new best friend. “I’m sure you’ll both hit it off at once.” They loathe each other instantly. Plus, Miss Perfect is very, very rich. It’s instant competition, and there’s no way Kristin can win. At the reception there’s a chocolate fountain so big Evel Kneivel wouldn’t dare jump it if it was in front of Caesar’s Palace. As they are leaving, everybody gets a puppy! At the wedding, instead of playing music by Maya’s favorite group, Wilson Philips, she actually books Wilson Philips. Kristen in her insecurity proceeds to fuck up every single event leading up to the wedding and ruin an old friendship.
It’s odd to use the word “real” in a situation like this, which is so exaggerated, and yet I feel this movie is more real than The Hangover. For one thing, the characters are more believable and sympathetic, better written. The events in The Hangover were unlikely, contrived. Here, it’s all too real. Thousands of brides and their maids go through this sort of shit on a smaller scale every day. It is sad, and obscene, the lengths they go to. Typically, whether it is $10,000 or a million dollars, the family spends two or three times what they can afford. Bridesmaids are faced with buying an expensive dress (here, it is $800) they have little chance of ever wearing again. And for what? Well, hell, ask Kim Kardashian, I sure as shit don’t know.