With uncouth composure and deliriously soporific pace Harold Ramis’ Analyze That is as unfunny as it is tortuously inert, castrated by a grievous sense for self-disgust and sexual frustration. An elongated labor of wry hokum stringing along career nadirs and (now quite) ridiculous Mafiosoism with a gust of mild passive-aggressiveness and Oedipal complexities, previously explored this year by Robert De Niro in the emaciated City by the Sea. Brashly macho and neurotic submission persona-contrasts usually create some substantial character chemistry, and in the original there was, but in this sequel it’s an antiquated, groaning ritual. In terms of dialogue the film swaggers with not so much stupidity as with ghastly under-editing, thickly distributed throughout an, indeed, moronic plot-line that is so perplexed in its self the result is a gaping, hollow nothing.
That Ramis and Co. seem to know the material’s vacuous quality only pushes the fact that its comedy-drama confused-ambiguity succumbs to a riled, self-indulgent madness. Much like De Niro’s comedy labor in recent history much of the comic release falls flat, on its face and in a bizarre posthumous fashion, still gasping for air though obviously dead from the moment De Niro belches out renditions of West Side Story show-tunes. Hypothetically possible in its comedic ambitions but extraordinarily lightweight and impossibly ineffectual despite the somewhat successful comedy of the past Ramis films (Vacation, Groundhog Day), the corollary of awkward scatological and male chauvinistic crudity furnishes the film with deserved comeuppance. One entertaining Freudian nightmare gag and a visual joke on casserole masturbation hardly make up for the effete and recycled Mafia satire now seen in endless number (e.g. Analyze This, Mickey Blue Eyes, Jane Austin’s Mafia, et al) yet Analyze That perpetuates the ungodly trend with irredeemable parody of The Sopranos and this film’s own former.
Mafia boss (and broad stereotype #1) Paul Vitti (De Niro) fakes insanity, via the constant West Side Story performances, while in Sing Sing, which was his result in the original some two years ago, and calls his psychiatrist Ben Sobel (Billy Crystal, broad stereotype #2) requesting his aid in his release scam. Sobel’s renowned shrink of father has recently died, which prompts the bitterly repressed son to keep reassuring others that “he’s grieving, it’s a process”, a line spoken much too often without considerable reason other than being a nifty catchphrase. As you may remember Sobel married Lisa Kudrow in the first film, and yes she returns despite making it on her own as a star on Friends, and as you may recall he had a portly son called Michael (Kyle Sabihy), he also returns. The lovably rotund Jelly (Joe Viterelli, also playing himself) in addition returns as Vitti’s chewy-faced minion and comes to his aid when the marked boss is released into Sobel’s care. Awry psychological therapy sessions, rival gang threats, and improbable robberies ensue (all of which revolve around acrimonious relationships á la Raging Bull and The Odd Couple) as our malicious protagonist attempts to readapt into society.
Grandly artificial and mannered to various degrees of ill-conceived lampooning equal in anemic variety to the film’s entire unappealing mise-en-scène, there seems about as much logic to the film’s purpose as there is to the sociopathic ranting perpetrated by the fallen De Niro. Avaricious and convoluted in story structure there is little not deflated in this monster’s rampage; i.e. Crystal’s often engaging if superficial wit, Kudrow’s occasional wit, and obviously De Niro’s (once) keen ability to choose features -- all fall prey. Save a few moments Analyze That is largely a Ramis-aggrandizing, misogynistic hog, schizophrenically pretentious and profane in dialogue and scrawny in cheap presence.
Utilizing a repetitive coloring book of mismatched numbers this otiose exercise is as shallow as its underpinnings and just as crude with its droll-less foundation. In fact Analyze That is so stupendously unpleasant it perhaps surpasses its blasphemous sequel brethren of 2002, Austin Powers in Goldmember and MIB II, which were all destabilized in some way by a ludicrous emotional/psychological drama plotline, and here it’s analogous. Actual therapeutic conferences reveal as unforgivable, and as real therapy goes this rehashes its findings, attempting to dissect the Vitti character by rooting his emotional problems in the event of his father’s death. Ostensible gibes at Freud, even his method and theorems, underline the film’s increasing irreverence ironically contradicting the Mafia’s unwritten, contradictory code of respect. With a cringe-inducing finale, suggesting an emotionally cured Vitti (through extremely un-powerful home video footage) despite his stubbornness and relatively few sessions, this beast (and hopefully the franchise) is finally asleep. Undoubtedly much more therapy would be needed and considering the jokes Freud would suggest analyzing the Phallic Stage: clearly Ramis’ still has some issues.