We cannot talk about House of Gucci without talking about Jared Leto. On the one hand, it is such a transformation that Leto is all but unrecognizable in the role. On the other, his take on Paolo Gucci is just one step shy from jumping out of a green Warp Pipe and shouting, “Its-a me Mario!” I’m not Italian, so I have no gauge on whether or not it’s offensive, but every decision he makes is so far beyond the bounds of good taste that it borders on caricature. It’s laughable. And it pulls you out of whatever mood Ridley Scott was trying to create in this movie.
In fact, no one here can decide what movie they’re in. Lady Gaga, in a deliciously soapy turn, thinks she’s in a 1980s made for TV special. Adam Driver is subdued almost to the point of sleepiness. And Al Pacino continues to build on that gravelly, shouty, Scent of a Woman persona, in the hopes that it might land him another Academy Award. Jeremy Irons is on the edge of vampiric. And I still have no idea what Salma Hayek is doing.
Based on the book by Sara Gay Forden, House of Gucci has all the ingredients for a real crowd pleaser. An all star cast. A lavish aesthetic. And a real potboiler of a plot. The trailer promised us something gimcrack and gaudy. But the end result ends up being a little too restrained to incite a strong response.
Great Scott!
House of Gucci is the second Ridley Scott movie to be released in 2021 – the first being the historical epic The Last Duel. It should be noted that there is absolutely no commonalities between these two movies. With the exception of Adam Driver, who appears in both, House of Gucci and The Last Duel differ in every possible way – in content and story, in genre and style.
It’s one of the things I love most about Ridley Scott as a director. In that I never know what I’m going to get when I walk into one of his movies. It could be science fiction. It could be about aliens. It could be a gladiatorial epic. Or even a crime thriller. Hell, it could be a romcom about an asshole workaholic who moves to Provence to run a vineyard. I admire Ridley Scott for being as diverse a filmmaker as he is. Even if the resulting films often vary in quality as widely as his range.
Sometimes it’s hard to believe that the director of Alien, Blade Runner, Gladiator, and The Martian was also responsible for Exodus: Gods and Kings.
Now House of Gucci isn’t quite as awful as that. But it is altogether unexceptional. It’s The Godfather, and Macbeth, and Succession all rolled into one, without any of the cunning that made those classics. This movie is a relatively straightforward biopic about the rise and fall of Maurizio Gucci, his tumultuous relationship (to say the least) with his wife Patrizia Reggiani, and his untimely death at the hands of hired assassins. (This isn’t a spoiler. It was, after all, a high profile, trial of the (last) century, that made global headlines.)
This linear approach would have worked had the movie been better paced. Alas, House of Gucci is so top heavy, that it spends far too much time establishing Maurizio and Patrizia’s relationship, before unceremoniously sprinting to the finish line. So much so that the third act feels rushed and unfinished. It is unfortunate that this is a movie that falls short on such a basic narrative level.
Arrivederci Gucci
House of Gucci is just a little much, swinging wildly between serious and camp, between drama and melodrama. The script, by Becky Johnston and Roberto Bentivegna, can’t quite find its voice, and that tonal dissonance is incredibly jarring, more so when you have a soundtrack in which George Michael and Donna Summer clash with Pavarotti and Black Machine. It isn’t quite kitschy enough to be cult, and it isn’t sober enough to be Oscar-worthy.
And yet, there was still something strangely compelling about House of Gucci. Despite its many flaws, I was nevertheless entertained. Part of it has to do with its stranger than fiction story. Part of it is because of Arthur Max’s intricate production design and Janty Yates’ flouncy fashion. Part of it is simply because everyone here seems so utterly committed to their cacophonous performances.
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