Writer-director Richard Wenk's screenplay for Just The Ticket, a sweet but woefully misbegotten romantic comedy, reportedly took more than a decade to gestate, but just about everything wrong with it is evident within a minute. Andy Garcia, a fast-talking New York ticket scalper and lapsed Catholic, steps inside a confessional for the first time in 20 years. Garcia, who treats his repentance as if it were an evening at the Improv, asks for forgiveness; the priest, of course, asks for Knicks tickets. Not only does the opening scene predict the many cute, obvious punchlines to come—will America finally get a chance to see Andy Garcia in a nun's habit?—but it announces just how undemocratic the film is going to be. With his oversized khakis, black Chuck Taylors, green plaid sports jacket, and white fedora, Garcia has more character in his wardrobe alone than the rest of the cast has combined. As a big-hearted, sentimental small-timer looking for redemption, he comes on like a Damon Runyon action figure with all the accessories: a prickly girlfriend (Andie MacDowell) with dreams of becoming a chef, a slow-witted old partner (Richard Bradford) who was once a cornerman for Smokin' Joe Frazier, and a mangy, pitiful mutt that nobody else could love. During his last big score, scalping tickets for a papal visit to Yankee Stadium, even John Paul II kindly defers to him. That Just The Ticket is itself an underdog in need of salvation only makes the film seem all the more sickly and mawkish.