Did I mention that Salma Hayek plays a fortuneteller who becomes Patrizia’s sidekick and adviser? But all the emoting is crammed into a curiously literal, procedural frame, as if someone had tried to make an opera libretto out of court transcripts.Archive : Kong And Jesse – Jumpcut Academy 2.0 There is potential here for camp, for glamour, for something louche and nasty and over-the-top. You’ve heard of ham? Leto goes full mortadella, bulked up and stuffed into a pink corduroy suit, billowing tobacco smoke and throwing himself into paroxysms of agita. To complicate the kinship network, and to prevent a potentially dangerous outbreak of understatement, Aldo has a son, Paolo, who fancies himself a fashion genius and who is played by Jared Leto. If Pacino ran any hotter, he’d burst into flame. If Irons were any chillier, he would crystallize. Casting Pacino and Irons as siblings is a witty move: at this stage in their careers, both are highly mannered, sometimes almost self-parodic performers who exist at opposite ends of the thermal spectrum. The older Gucci generation is divided between Rodolfo and his brother Aldo (Al Pacino), who runs the New York side of the business. It’s pretty hot stuff.īut as the mood shifts from sex comedy toward loftier, more somber matters - money, loyalty, family honor - “House of Gucci” manages to become both overwrought and tedious. He plays soccer and horses around with the other drivers and mechanics during lunch break until Patrizia summons him to the office to attend to his conjugal duties. He isn’t altogether wrong, but Maurizio marries her anyway, and finds brief happiness working for his in-laws, trading in his cut-to-measure suits for proletarian coveralls. He defies his aristocratic father, Rodolfo (an impeccable, sepulchral Jeremy Irons), who regards Patrizia as a social climber and a gold digger. Maurizio is quiet and a little passive, but Patrizia nudges him toward a bolder idea of himself. This is fun for a while - the movie is more than two and a half hours long - and Gaga and Driver have an interesting chemistry. For a while it seems like the music cues (David Bowie, Eurythmics) might also help, but at some point in the ’80s the playlist gets scrambled. The shouting, in heavily accented English, lasts from the early ’70s to the mid-90s, and you can tell what year it is by scrutinizing the clothes and haircuts. Most of the scenes consist of Guccis yelling at other Guccis - in Milan and New York, amid the Alps and near a lake, in hotels and conference rooms and villas and cafes. (His underrated “All the Money in the World” was a tougher, tarter treatment of similar material.) The script, by Becky Johnston and Roberto Bentivegna (based on Sara Gay Forden’s book), has a repetitive, wheel-spinning quality. The actual director, Ridley Scott, possesses ample style and impressive craft, but at least this time around seems to be lacking the necessary vision or inspiration. The raw material plays as tragedy and farce at the same time. The true story of how the Gucci family lost control of the company that still bears its name - and of how its scion, Maurizio Gucci, lost his life to a hit man’s bullets - could have inspired Bernardo Bertolucci to heights of decadent spectacle, Luchino Visconti to flights of dialectical extravagance or Lina Wertmuller to feats of perverse ideological analysis. A lot of things, really, but mostly a strong idea and a credible reason for existing. Also cars, shoes, hats, sport coats, handbags, dresses, lingerie - whatever you want!īut for all that abundance, something is missing. Set mostly in Milan, it spins out a sprawling, chaotic, borderline-operatic tale of family feuding, sexual jealousy and capitalist intrigue, with plenty of drinks, cigarettes and snacks (the carpaccio comes highly recommended). The kindest thing I can say about “House of Gucci” - and also the cruelest - is that it should have been an Italian movie.
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