Rat Race (2001)

Rat Race arrives from 2001, a year in which a studio could still assemble a dozen comedians, point them toward New Mexico, and call the result a motion picture. The premise concerns a casino tycoon named Sinclair, played by John Cleese with visible delight, who wagers his wealthiest patrons on the progress of six strangers chasing two million dollars across the desert. Jerry Zucker directs with the weary efficiency of a man who helped invent this sort of thing and knows precisely how much mileage a dangling cow and a hot air balloon can provide. The film's politics are those of a whoopee cushion, which is to say it has none and is not embarrassed about it.

The ensemble is diverse in the unself-conscious manner of its era. Cuba Gooding Jr., Whoopi Goldberg, and Lanei Chapman carry substantial storylines, and the screenplay never pauses to congratulate itself for this. Race goes unmentioned. So does sexuality, in any form. Women fly helicopters, run businesses, and command a biker gang, though each of these exists to service a gag, and the gags are not making arguments. Enrico the narcoleptic tourist and a busload of mental patients supply laughs at the expense of their conditions. The film treats neurodivergence as a prop and moves along.

The class satire is present but soft. Wealthy men betting on the desperation of ordinary people is a fine target, and the film takes aim before losing its nerve. The racers end by donating the money to a Smash Mouth charity concert, a resolution that gestures at generosity without costing anyone a dime. There is no sermon, no lecture, no moment where the audience is instructed in how to feel. It is a machine for producing pratfalls, and it runs until it stops. We are left holding a document of what a broad studio comedy looked like before anyone thought to ask it questions. The answer is loud, amiable, and entirely without a message.