A critique often levelled at Nia Vardalos’ Big Fat Greek Wedding films is that each, thus far, has played largely as might a protracted sitcom episode. There’s irony there. After all, the actual sitcom spun from 2002’s original sleeper hit proved a stonking miss. Fans slept on that one. Kirk Jones’ ‘long awaited’ 2016 sequel proved more successful and now here comes a third. It’s a more of the same offering from Vardalos, who directs in addition to writing and producing for the first time, and is best related to the movies often born of sitcom origins. Yes, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 3 is a holiday romp. Run out of ideas? Send your popular characters elsewhere in the world. The formula is tried, tired, and tested. It is some not inconsiderable mercy that Vardalos’ returning cast remain so fundamentally likeable.

The plot is a narrative by necessity, owing to the passing of Michael Constantine two years since. His Gus, father of Vardalos’ Toula, maintains a strong presence here. There’s the shonky photo frame opener, the golden urn on the Portokalos mantelpiece and the legacy that is his settled familia. It is, of course, Toula who must carry the weightiest inheritant burden. She is bequeathed the task of delivering Gus’ immigration diary to his old, long lost friends. They who remained behind in the homeland as Gus set forth in search of a new life. This mission fortuitously coincides with a letter from the mayor of Gus’ childhood town, inviting all and sundry to a slap up festival of reunion. There could hardly be a better opportunity for the trip of a lifetime.

Even by the featherlight standard set by its predecessors, My Big Fat Greek Wedding 3 is critically deficient in heft. It’s a film in which dramatic time and weight are assigned to the search for an old tree and the brief doubt as to whether or not the townsfolk can manage to shift a rock that’s been blocking the local mountain stream. There’s never any doubt that Toula will eventually track down her father’s old homeland homies but, even so, Vardalos struggles to present a case that anyone should care either way. The film simply ambles along, only escaping the feel of flatness toward the end. What with the Grecian setting and plot comparisons to Ol Parker’s Here We Go Again, it’s hard to escape the notion that this is just Mamma Mia without the ABBA. Imagine for a moment being faced with Sophie’s deeply trivial plights but not having the promise that later Cher will pop up for a random rendition of Fernando. That’s it to a tee.

None of this is to say that there’s anything especially unlikeable here. It’s true, the set pieces creak like an old Greek taverna but a steady stream of one liners elicit a fair roster of chuckles. Most of these are afforded Andrea Martin and Maria Vacratsis’ scene-stealing aunties, Voula and Frieda. ‘I don’t gossip. I tattle tale,’ says the former, while the superstitious latter launches handfuls of salt over her shoulder and into unsuspecting faces. Vardalos herself glistens with undiminished charisma, ably matched by a matured John Corbett. The younger contingent, Elena Kampouris’ Paris and Elias Kacavas’ Aristotle, struggle with less developed roles but there’s a nice turn for newcomer Melina Kotselou, who does well to circumnavigate an irksome catch phrase and bring pathos – Greek word! – to dotty optimist Victory.

That, at the very least, the film does well. We might feel like intruders at the party, rather than part of the family itself, but the emotional soul here rings true. This will certainly be the final offering for the franchise but there’s something reassuring in knowing that the Portokalos clan will live on in Vardalos’ heart and mind. The affection and regard with which her cast and crew hold her is without doubt.