Much of the original has long faded from memory; the one moment still buzzing in my grey cells is the location of Zamunda, somewhere beyond the Paramount mountain. True to form for a sequel that is ostensibly a remake, the camera once again draws us past the logo into a world that’s more sitcom than extension, with characters returning each week to pretty much do the same thing as the week before. Only this time, it’s been over three decades since their last visit. It was a kick to see everyone reassemble, but in the service of what? Cameo performances by En Vogue, Salt-N-Pepa, and Gladys Knight and the Pips tend to push things closer in the direction of American Idol finale than laughter, something this comedy sorely lacks. Akeem’s (Eddie Murphy) stateside return now entails a search for a son the monarch didn’t know existed. Father to three daughters, Akeem follows the old dictum, “A man’s not a man unless he’s produced a son,” and the women of Zamunda are not allowed to ascend the throne. Rather than let “his balls go to waste,” as a friend of mine so aptly put it, there is one new wrinkle that this PG-13 followup has on its predecessor: the film’s plot is prevaricated on sexual assault. Heir to the throne Lavelle Junson (Jermaine Fowler) is the product of date rape. (His mother, played with neither shame nor subtlety by Leslie Jones, drugged Akeem.) At one point, a character expresses great self-reflexive insight on the subject of sequels: “If it’s good, why ruin it?” The four screenwriters — five if you count Murphy — should have heeded the advice of their own character. Quite the comedown from Dolemite Is My Name, the last pairing of Murphy and director Craig Brewer. (2021) — Scott Marks
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