Analyze That (2002)

Sequels exist to answer questions nobody asked, and Analyze That answers what Paul Vitti and Ben Sobel might do with a second hour of screen time. The answer, delivered with the enthusiasm of a man returning a rental car, involves a faked insanity plea, a string of failed job interviews, and an armored car full of gold. Harold Ramis directs with the weary professionalism of a craftsman handed the same blueprint twice. This is a comedy about mobsters and psychotherapy, and it is content to remain exactly that.

We searched the frame for a thesis and came up empty. The cast is white, Italian-American, and untroubled by the omission. Women drift through as wives and widows with nothing to do but react. No racial commentary surfaces, no environmental sermon, no critique of the wealth being lifted out of that truck. The gold is just gold. The psychiatry is a plot device, and Paul's madness is a legal maneuver, not a statement about the human mind. De Niro visited Bellevue to study patients and sat in on group sessions, which is diligence, not advocacy.

The Sopranos gets spoofed without much wit, a mob war is averted, and everyone sings West Side Story at the waterfront. The film opened second behind Die Another Day and collected Worst Sequel at the Stinkers Bad Movie Awards, a verdict it accepts with the dignity of a man who knows he is the lesser brother. There is nothing here to argue about, which is its own modest achievement. A cleaner cultural ledger would be difficult to produce on purpose. A finer vintage of pure, uncut entertainment, free of any lesson whatsoever, would be hard to find outside a bottle of house red. The sommelier notes no finish at all. The sommelier is at peace with that.

A final observation on the ledger. The film asks nothing of its audience beyond ninety-six minutes and a tolerance for De Niro singing showtunes. That is not a failure of conscience. It is simply a film with no conscience to fail, which places it in a category all its own, somewhere between the heist and the wreckage of a decent premise. The classification stands. One hundred percent inert, and somehow still watchable. The sommelier pours another glass and moves on to the next bottle.

The film is a sequel, and it is nothing more. The classification is complete, and the ledger is clean. There is no further analysis required. The sommelier sets down the glass and waits for the next vintage, hoping for something with a little more body, or at least a little more argument. None comes. The evening ends as it began, with a shrug and a showtune.