Lady Gaga as Patrizia Reggiani and Adam Driver as Maurizio Gucci. (Photo Credit: The New York Times)
Echoing the verve of her predecessors, like Medea, and successors, like Amy Dunne, Patrizia Reggiani’s story is one that is almost primordial. Director Ridley Scott’s new movie, House of Gucci, chronicles Reggiani’s tale and how one woman toppled a sacred fashion-house’s empire. Scott’s rendition of what could have been an earnest exploration of this tragic story has devalued and depleted all emotional capital. The half-baked accents and unromantically operatic tone are punctuated by the diverting ostentatious personalities of characters such as Paolo Gucci (Jared Leto), who’s character’s camp rivals that of Mame Dennis (1958), yet without the substance or charm. The film teeters on the edge of possibility: possibility to survey and perhaps scrutinize the implications of nepotism, family businesses under capitalism, the humanity behind the financial pressures to go from a private to public company and the various social dynamics at play. There are perceptive and pure moments in the script which achieve this – a family blowout in the aftermath of a meeting with private investors forcing the hand of Maurizio’s uncle Aldo and cousin Paolo to sell their shares comes to mind – however, it manages to fall short in the end.
Set in 1978, the film opens with Patrizia Reggiani (Lady Gaga), a bright-eyed and ambitious young woman who manages the office at her father’s trucking company in Milan, clad in stilettos and form fitting attire nonetheless. Maurizio Gucci (Adam Driver) is a bright though often unsmiling, studious, elegant and temperate law student whose preferred mode of transportation around the stylish city of Milan is via bicycle. At a mutual friend’s disco party, the two meet in a case of mistaken identity when Patrizia asks Maurizio for a drink at the bar and he must admit he’s not the bartender. She then friskily invites him to dance, he balks, but ultimately can’t resist. Knowing she’ll never see him again, she acts as her own agent of fate by following him to his university bookstore. This ends with Patrizia writing her phone number on the windshield of his Vespa with her sanguine lipstick.
Caught up in the all consuming world of fun and sex which Patrizia has presented to him, Maurizio soon proposes. Although he likens her to Elizabeth Taylor earlier in the film, she doesn’t possess the same aura of sophistication or manner. This is pronounced in a scene when Patrizia visits Maurizio’s father Rodolfo (Jeremy Irons), at the Gucci home. She comments on the apartment’s general grandeur and style, specifically the art. It just so happens that Rodolfo is in possession of Klimt’s Portrait of Adele Bloch-Bauer I, which she mistakes for a Picasso. Rodolfo is completely deterred by the idea of marriage to Patrizia, implying to his son that she is a gold-digger and daughter of a mafioso. These grievances hinder his ability to give a fatherly blessing, cutting off Maurizio from the family fortune and triggering the series of misfortune events that follow this Shakespearian tragedy. After the wedding, Maurizio expresses his disillusionment and skepticism regarding the family business. However he’s soon cornered into a position thanks to the combined powers of his equal-shareholding uncle Adolfo (Al Pacino) and avaricious wife. When Maurizio surrenders to his dynastic roots, the excess and trappings of extreme wealth and power intoxicate Patrizia, which corrodes her marriage insidiously. Dismayed and disenchanted by the woman she’s become, he seeks a divorce, catalyzing Patrizia’s spiral and desire to inflict revenge.
The haunting psychology behind a scorned or vengeful woman posits the opportunity for a line of questioning that the audience must consider; is this the story of a malicious, violent, psychopath? Or an impassioned woman driven to questionable actions by external and simultaneously oppressive forces at work? Patrizia is Circe without Zeus, Medea without Jason, Lady Macbeth without a nuanced ambition. The relationship between her and Maurizio onscreen offers no comprehensive look into the marital dynamics at hand, rather than going through a set of weak artistic motions for a chronicle foretold. Undoubtedly, this is Gaga’s movie. Her performance at times provides the opportunity to transcend these realities, yet her efforts ultimately fall victim to a script which does her no favors. Nonetheless, she commands your attention, attacking her role ruthlessly and exactly. Driver delivers a noteworthy performance as well, evoking a bond-esque (in reference to Connery of course) elegance and suave, coupled with just the right amount of unassuming, pacific nerdiness. As Maurizio quickly progresses in the business, his character regresses just as easily, too easily in fact. Unfortunately that is another byproduct of the same artistic laziness and scriptwriting his counterparts like Gaga suffer from. Maurizio was a man who sought a conventional existence that would breed content, possessed some degree of ethics and lived as an untroubled ideal youth. He becomes a man who is an adulterer, is defeated by the banal trappings of wealth and power, and betrays his family. This is a stark and striking difference. His character, noticeably underdeveloped, simply doesn’t afford the sufficient time and depth to explore that de-evolution. As for the rest of the cast; Leto continuously descends into excess and self-indulgence for a role that doesn’t warrant such behavior; Pacino’s performance, not as tainted by his castmates due to a lack of overpowering accent, brings the actors natural talent and sarcastic humor to the table; and as for Irons, he executes the steely patriarch well, he’s without enough screen time to say otherwise.
Aside from a couple of stand-alone scenes, House of Gucci fails to garner a true emotional response from its audience. It fails to create sympathetic characters or sufficient character development overall. The film thwarts itself from accomplishing the former due to an overarching identity crisis; flirting with the potential of a biopic, yet channeling the spirit of a kitschy, frivolous romp. It fails on both fronts, attempting to find the balance, a taxing feat to be sure. This is not a bad film, but it’s not a great one either. It’s sure to be crowd-pleasing and sensational fun, as its movie soundtrack suggests – ornamented with bouncy 80s hits spanning from Blondie to Donna Summer. If for nothing else, go for Gaga.
