house of gucci

Bless Ridley Scott for trying to keep the glossy Hollywood adult drama alive. His recent The Last Duel, a triple mirror of character perspectives, was surprisingly gripping, with a guttural, fog-drenched finale of action-packed tension. House of Gucci is far less sharp, more meandering and messy, but still, it’s a big movie that’s hard to ignore, with Lady Gaga’s brassy movie star performance as centerpiece (anecdotally, I feel like she's the main reason why people care about seeing this to begin with). The new MGM logo (seen first in No Time to Die) graces the screen before this movie, and there's something about it--that nostalgic roar--as a reminder of studio pictures that appealed to wide audiences of yesteryear; but also representative of the constant shifts, deaths and rebirths of corporations--this new CGI lion, emblematic of the ticky-tacky era of blockbusters we've been immersed in the past fifteen-odd years.

The first half of House of Gucci is an Italian-set 1970s meet-cute romance between Maurizio Gucci (Adam Driver) and Patrizia (Lady Gaga), from their vastly different worlds. Scott, not known for subtlety, fires up the film with obvious foreshadowing--the Gucci empire, partly in the hands of Maurizio's  dour, terribly chilly father Rodolfo (Jeremy Irons), and it should be noted that he has a cough (an omen in any old-fashioned movie--and one awaits his demise for the plot to move forward). Obviously, he's not going to be approving of a daughter of a middling truck company business or a woman who doesn't know the difference between his Klimt and a Picasso. Soon we meet the more gregarious Aldo (Al Pacino), Rodolfo's brother, who seems more accepting of Patrizi, but no less as scheming to strengthen the Gucci family. Aldo's son, Paolo (Jared Leto), is the hopeless black sheep of this clan, with dreams of becoming a designer himself. After marrying Maurizio (Scott pairs their wedding goofily to George Michael's "Faith," of all musical choices--I braced myself as I heard that familiar organ's opening strains as Patrizia walked down the aisle), Patrizia, is now entangled in the Gucci web. As the saga evolves, including Patrizia's journey into a state of deep-freeze (it's perfect that one of her more indelible looks is sipping an espresso in a fur hat and a sleek crimson-pink ski suit in Switzerland) as she falls prey to her materialistic desires, with a fierce loyalty to and protection of this brand. One should be prepared for oodles of melodramatic utterances of the word GUCCI in all varying forms of movie accents. 

Fittingly, during my screening, someone was wearing a heavy perfume that permeated the theater. House of Gucci is definitely heavy perfume, it ladles on broad strokes and broad performances. No one expects Pacino to hold back. Leto's Paolo sure is a sight to behold--I never felt as if I was watching a human being--but someone speaking rivers of dialogue with a dramatic accent through latex that seemed on the precipice of collapse. This isn't necessarily a bad thing, as the movie doesn't seem to be gunning for being delicate. In times where acting in dramas is very understated, I found myself enjoying the mess (and Leto's character is despairingly messy to match) unravel before my eyes. Gaga, however, finds that sweet spot between understated realism and the hyperbolic, reminiscent of Sharon Stone's flashy turn in Casino. It's a star power moment, extraordinarily watchable, with slivers of wry humor and even glimmers of pathos when she turns villainous. She pairs well with Driver, whose character is the quietest of the family members, therefore gives the more quiet performance. The dissonance between them as characters and performers is magnetic to behold. For such a meticulous craftsman, Scott's direction is wildly uneven--the film disjointedly moves from romance into stodgy corporate drama into true crime thriller and one can feel its epic runtime. The pop music cues are unfortunate and unimaginative--usually out of sync from the time-stamped years the film announces, from mismatched Donna Summer eras to the aforementioned George Michael track. The classical music choices are somewhat Olive Garden-y, if plucked from a "World's Greatest Classical Music" CD. Despite some of its pedestrian notes, House of Gucci, is no less fun to watch, thanks mostly to Lady Gaga's layered turn (when she's off-screen, you want her back!); and once the film treads in a more melancholic space in the finale, there's a sad wistfulness to it that sneaks up on you unexpectedly, making the whole jumble feel emotionally worthwhile. *** 

-Jeffery Berg

come with me

Sea of Love is a fairly ridiculous and entertaining erotic thriller from the "Maneater" scare flicks of the 80s.  Ellen Barkin is the sultry temptress who may or may not be a serial killer who spins a 45 of "Sea of Love" for her victims.  Al Pacino, in a more subdued mode, plays the cop on the case.  It's no Vertigo but Sea of Love directed by Harold Becker has it's own smoky room appeal.  It has a good cast with one of Barkin's better moments and some interesting supporting players.  John Goodman is a little annoying as Pacino's cop sidekick (his over-the-top "Sea of Love" singalong is deleted scene material) but I guess he provides some levity to the flick.  Patricia Barry as a lonely older woman makes an indelible impression in just a few minutes.  This is also the film known for casting Samuel L. Jackson (he's seriously in almost every movie!) as "Black Guy."  Set in NYC, there are some nice shots of Manhattan, along with a saxophone-drenched score  by Trevor Jones.  It's all pretty captivating until the twist which kind of deflates the movie for a second viewing--oft the fate of movies too dependent on twists.  Still, with Pacino at the helm, Sea of Love is a decent diversion.  ***

the big apple '80 - cruising & they all laughed

It's always interesting to see how New York City has changed by watching old films. William Friedkin's Cruising came out the year I was born, 1980, at the end of an era and right before the AIDS crisis. It's a fascinating film for how it displays its subject matter: a serial killer lurking underground gay leather bars. The meatpacking district is now lined with designer stores but in Cruising, the neighborhood is desolate, dark and grimy. The film was controversial, especially with the gay community, for its disturbing portrait of gay males. Friedkin, whose oft-harrowing films show unrealistic events through the guise of realism (The French Connection and The Exorcist), insists that he was trying to be an accurate observer though he better understands the community's concerns today. I wonder though how the subject matter would be handled today. Something has definitely changed since 1980. Hollywood and American society can't seem to portray a straight man experimenting with the gay lifestyle without a heavy dose of humor (Humpday, etc.). Pacino's character, a straight cop posing as a leather bar patron, is obviously conflicted and psychologically affected about what he's doing. And yet he never seems shocked by the actions around him or disgusted. The film affirms his straightness for the audience by inserting dull love scenes with Karen Allen. In fact anything sexual, gay or straight, in cinema has to be unrealistically pretty or has to have jokes to comfort its audience. Have we become more prudish today than then?

Perhaps one of the film's major problems is a convoluted approach to its gay serial killer (or is he the one or not the one? The mystery, like many of Friedkin's works, isn't solved) by linking his violent actions to his father's nonacceptance. And then later, another gay killer emerges. His rage rooted in jealousy. Subliminal images of male on male penetration is also linked to the stabbings of victims. The film seems to suggest, and perhaps not Friedkin's intention, that the gay lifestyle easily leads to ritualism and violence.

Cruising was nominated for 3 Razzie Awards including Worst Picture, Director, and Screenplay and panned at the time of its release. However, reception has warmed since its release. I too think it's aged well in the sense that it remains a cultural document: a transportation to a riskier, grimier era in New York and a rare Hollywood depiction of gays. The unusual score by Jack Nietzsche and the soundtrack full of the then-emerging punk scene, is a far cry from the slick disco films of the era. This is a grungy affair. And remains one of Hollywood's most unique thrillers. ***

In complete contrast, Peter Bogdanovich's They All Laughed shows a sunnier side of Manhattan life in the same era. Both Friedkin and Bogdanovich were landmark early 1970s filmmakers, financing their own work. The failure of these two films reflected not only the gradual decline of the quality of their work, but of Hollywood's new sensibilities.

They All Laughed (title taken from the Gershwin song) is a slapstick about private detectives falling in love with the women of their cases. The film is light, too light, and never hits a comic stride. The lines aren't particularly funny or clever. And the actors, as great as they are, including John Ritter, Ben Gazzara and a lovely Audrey Hepburn, deliver bland performances. The luminous Dorothy Stratten figures in her final film appearance (her name appears in the opening credits under a shot of the World Trade Center). Colleen Camp is beautiful but grating as a country singer. Influential on modern directors like Tarantino and Wes Anderson, this is another male fantasy about gorgeous ladies falling madly in love with awkward, unattractive men. And yet, like Cruising, They All Laughed is a curious document of the denouement of the 1970s in New York. The use of locations are vividly done. I never knew the city once had a popular country music station! **

-Jeffery Berg

See also Film Stew, Love Train for the Tenebrous Empire, Termite Art, Wes Anderson's interview with Peter Bogdanovich