It's a mercenary bit of manipulation undertaken
by a hired gun that bears no relationship to art, no interest in depth — it's aberrant, derivative, and in its
conclusion's startling resemblance to a Kiwanis Club
haunted house, surprisingly dull: the one thing it wasn't supposed to be anymore.
(Apatow waits until the film's
conclusion to present a revelation that makes a pretty convincing case that Shandling's life was just exactly as
haunted by that trauma as Apatow says it was.)