Final Analysis
(1992)
(SPOILERS) Richard Gere and his tiny, tiny eyes. An
invitation not to see a movie if ever there was one. And yet he endures. Often
he seems barely awake. In Phil Joanou’s busy but unengaging Hitchcock homage he
occasionally signals his alertness by studiously blinking, like a mole under a
UV lamp. I wasn’t 100% sure if I’d seen this movie before, and even the wave of
familiarity that washed over me as I viewed it left me confused; was I feeling
this purely because it is so derivative?
Final Analysis was
released in the same year as Basic
Instinct. Both films are throwbacks to the slow burn noir thrillers of the
‘40s and ‘50s, and both update the formula with lashings of sex and violence. Curiously,
both are also set in San Francisco. Basic
Instinct succeeds because Paul Verhoeven embraces the silliness of his
script (Joe Esterhaz was never the most subtle of writers) and makes his result
as insanely exaggerated as possible. He’s inviting the audience to laugh along
with the ride. Joanou is working from a screenplay by Wesley Strick (Robert
Berger has a story credit also) and, while it frequently verges on self-parody,
it’s far too straight-faced in execution to be intentional. Strick was on a hot
streak at the time, following Martin Scorsese’s Cape Fear remake (the very definition of over-the-top, but as
mechanically made as his later Shutter
Island), but his script is shamelessly formulaic.
Top shrink (Isaac Barr, played by ol’ gimlet eyes) embarks
on an affair with the sister (Kim Basinger’s Heather) of a troubled patient
(Uma Thurman as Diana). Heather’s hubby (Eric Roberts) is a mobster/property
developer and all-round Mr. Bastard. When Heather kills him during a fight,
apparently suffering from pathological intoxication, Isaac does all he can to get
her off the hook. But then he begins to have doubts about her motives.
Analysis is about
as subtle with its appropriation of Freudian psychology as Hitchcock’s
ridiculous (but entertaining) Spellbound.
The difference is that the former was made nearly 50 years later, when no one
was much buying into unfiltered Freudian analysis any more. Strick clearly
recognises this; he has a lecturer convincingly demolish Sigmund for his lack
of insight into the female mind; it’s one of the few scenes that suggests
anything other than a stock configuration of the psychological thriller. Diana
constantly undercuts Isaac’s therapy by giving smart-arse suggestions of his
likely reading of her condition; it’s screaming out that the method is dated and
unworkable. This theme is embodied in Isaac himself, the Freudian analyst; he
is revealed as a ready dupe who falls hook, line and sinker for the scheme
concocted by the two sisters.
But if Joanou appreciates any of this, he doesn’t show it.
He seems preoccupied with capturing the picture’s fake-noir a style, engaging
with shots rather than plot. The result (partly a fault of the structure, in
fairness) is a stop-start pace that fails to intrigue. Joanou is best known for
his U2 tour documentary, Rattle and Hum.
His features have been inconsequential affairs save for the underrated Irish
mob drama State of Grace. Final Analysis might have worked, but
only with a different person calling the shots. Verhoeven could have pumped up
the sex scenes and revelled in the absurdity. Or Brian De Palma; there’s enormous
potential here for split screen and excessively staged set pieces (he would
have adored the trading of places between the not-really-very-much-alike-at-all
Basinger and Thurman). Better still, he’d have made the cod-psychology as funny
as it is in Dressed to Kill.
Reportedly, John Boorman had considered directing. God knows why.
Joanou clumsily telegraphs the twists and turns. He tips his
hat so badly, you wonder if it’s wilful self-sabotage. He needs to hoodwink the
viewer at very least, but he clearly didn’t probe Strick’s plot for holes. Such
as, why didn’t the prosecution build their case around the convenient death of
Roberts’ brother (who stood to inherit his estate before Heather)? Isaac learns
of this not insignificant nugget after the trial. Does no one do basic
investigation any more? And the scene where Heather is fooled into thinking two
doctors are from the DA’s office requires ludicrous circumstances to succeed
(which I guess is why it does). The
trial itself is involving, but I’m a sucker for a trial scene; nevertheless,
the collapse of the expert testimony from Dr. Grusin (Rita Zohar) involves the
same kind of narrative incompetence just mentioned. Gere also appears to be
incredibly unprofessional, talking about his patient’s mental health to others
at the drop of a hat.
It’s easy to see why Basinger took the part; it gave her the
chance to play bad. But she has none of the alpha-female poise that Sharon
Stone gave Catherine Trammell. Indeed, the movie boasts a resoundingly B-movie
cast (neither Gere nor Kim exactly pack out theatres). And neither of the leads
have the wit to work with the nonsense Strick has served up. Gere is so unfussed, he doesn’t even blink (actually, maybe he blinks) at a line like “He looks at shoes. I look at people’s
thoughts”. Uma is more engaging than her co-stars, but her character is sketchy and inconsistent.
So it’s a
relief that a couple of players get the tone just right. Roberts oozes
malevolence; Gere’s kidding no one when he stands his ground during an
encounter in the gents (where he, wait for it… blinks). But the star of the
show is Keith David as Detective Huggins, who spends the entire film looking
pissed off with Gere and rightly so. His tone of abject disdain is a treat, and
he relishes his graceless dialogue (“Don’t
yank my dick!”).
I tend to
think that it was a foolish move to automate lighthouses; they hold so much atmospheric
potential as a movie setting. Analysis completely
squanders this, throwing in sub-par effects shots and the very clumsy set up of
a loose guardrail outside the lantern room. The storm-lashed climax is utterly generic,
and is followed by a silly gag about dating Heather’s sister. Even worse is the
coda showing that Diana as a future husband slayer (“Maybe just one sip”). Strick was probably ask to come up with a
Hannibal Lecter moment, but should have known better. The same is true of the
whole movie really.
The one interesting part of Final
Analysis, besides the splendour that is Keith David, is its similarity to
this year’s Side Effects. In both
movies a psychopathic female inveigles a doctor (one of medicine, one of
psychology) into defending her case of spousal murder by reason of temporary
insanity. In both cases the plea results from substance abuse (prescription
medicine, alcohol). In both cases another woman aids the female antagonist in
her plot. In both cases the antagonist is found not guilty but held for
observation. In both cases the doctor gets wise to her scheme and pulls the rug
from under her, making it appear that she really is loopy. The difference is, Heather escapes her cage in time for
the showdown. Oh, and Steven Sodebergh made a much niftier little thriller.
**