In the repugnant The Closer You Get, a group of ill-kempt bachelors from a seaside Irish village put their adorably stupid heads together and hatch an outrageous scheme to end their collective loneliness. Operating under the assumption that Ireland's dating pool is dried up, despite the abundance of appealing single women all around them (hint hint), they take out an ad in The Miami Herald for "fit and sporty girls, age 20­p;21" to arrive in time for the St. Martha's Day dance. Anyone with a bit of common sense might have pointed out the unlikelihood of beautiful young women being willing to travel across the Atlantic for a blind date with marital intent. But the degenerative rules of cloying Local Hero knock-offs (from The Full Monty to the lesser Waking Ned Devine on down) dictate otherwise. For the painful hour leading up to the dance, the characters play out this pathetic charade against the expected travelogue backdrop of lush greens and craggy rocks. In the budding cottage industry of patronizing quirkfests, the only thing that sets The Closer You Get apart is how much of its humor relies on infantile notions of human sexuality. It's supposed to be funny when an amorous priest accidentally screens 10 instead of The Ten Commandments, or when the postmaster intercepts a poor slob's shipment of adult magazines, but it begs an obvious question: How did the people in this town ever procreate in the first place? An appealing cast—including an embarrassed turn by Neil Jordan regular Ian Hart as a butcher who compulsively adjusts his crotch—does what it can with overly mannered parts. But it's impossible for anyone on either side of the screen to slip away without having their intelligence insulted.