Loosey Gucci and Our Lady of Perpetual Drama: "House of Gucci"

 House of Gucci
directed by Ridley Scott
starring Lady Gaga, Adam Driver, Al Pacino, Jeremy Irons, Jared Leto 

Oh! to be a gold digger, a social climber, an arriviste with a taste for the finer things. To possess such a burning sense of entitlement that it fuels the ability to manipulate others and bend them to your will. I wasn't born with those genes, apparently. But for Patrizia Reggiani, a truck driver's daughter who married Maurizio, the scion of the Gucci fashion house in 1979, these attributes came all too naturally and proved to be her Achilles heel. 

House of Gucci is (purportedly) a true story, a sad story, but not an altogether unfamiliar story. The somewhat naive young man of means (Maurizo Gucci, played by Adam Driver) falls in love with a brash young girl from the working class (Lady Gaga). They marry over the father's objections, and now the ambitious young wife pushes her husband into grabbing more and more power within the family business -- through both legal and below-board means involving the sale and ownership of shares. With the husband's success come inevitable resentments and recriminations: His once beloved family members -- most notably his uncle (Al Pacino) and cousin (Jared Leto, in heavy prosthetics), as well as his father (Jeremy Irons) -- are betrayed, estranged and ultimately disenfranchised. The husband, who does elevate the brand with new style and new energy, bringing in designer Tom Ford, becomes drunk with power and goes on a spending spree that imperils the financial wellbeing of the company. 

The husband also indulges in a blonde mistress, who is nothing like The Missus, who has evolved into a nagging, jealous, manipulative, emotionally volatile problem whom he has come to disdain. A ski lodge scene where he mildly but pointedly belittles her in front of his bourgeois friends seems the beginning of the end. In a stunningly matter-of-fact and unanticipated move that may be common to the elite, Maurizio leaves for a business trip and simply never returns. 

Oh Italy, land of passion and Amore, Amore! Of chest-pounding operatic declarations and the deep-seated dark traditions of vendettas! Patrizia is Italian to her core and Drama is her middle name. Now a mother, she will not be forgotten, dismissed, or disregarded (I'm not going to be IGNORED, Dan!). Despite the fact that Maurizio is willing to make a clean break and give her financial support, Patrizia is of the "If I Can't Have Him, No One Will" school. In a heartrending scene where she follows Maurizio to his apartment with an album of family photos and begs him to return to her, a cold Maurizio refuses to engage and closes the door in her face. 

In these moments, an Italian diva wife's thoughts turn, naturally, to ... murder for hire. Through her friendship with a popular TV psychic and fortune teller, played by Salma Hayek, Patrizia orders up a hit as though ordering delivery pizza. The Sicilian hitmen prove more capable than they appear, and the rest, as they say, is history.  

Lady Gaga does wonders with this role, letting us see the insecurity and vulnerability driving Patrizia's desire for more power, more status, and more love. And as scheming a character as she is, Gaga also gives her a well of childish naivete, as in her belief that the fairy tale should rightfully be hers. There's a fearlessness to her ability to embody this woman, so that when she loves, we feel her joy, when she smolders, we feel her sting, and when she is threatened, we feel the enormity and inherent danger of her desperation. On the surface, Patrizia is beautiful, sharp, and engaging; Gaga's charm works so we see how easily but stealthily she insinuates herself into the confidence of Maurizio's uncle Aldo, co-founding partner of the Gucci empire, and his son, frustrated designer Paolo, before getting her husband to stab them in the back. 

I love Adam Driver as an actor, and he looks damn good in the 1970s feathered hair, designer suits, and squared off aviator glasses, but Maurizio is a coddled, mild-mannered, self-centered character in director Ridley Scott's version of things, so his performance is mostly low-key. The other cast members revel in their chance to employ florid Italian accents and talk with their hands. Jared Leto, almost unrecognizable under makeup and a frizzy half-bald pate, seems to be in another movie altogether, taking his character's lunkheadedness and whining self-pity to parodic levels. 

As a film, this is a standard tale of love gone wrong at the highest level of society, nothing more than a Milanese-set episode of "Snapped." I wouldn't call it a Must See movie, but it's not bad, more notable for reviving a famous murder case and stirring up bad feelings among the remaining Guccis and others who say that the film is far from accurate. 

Accurate or not, House of Gucci is really House of Gaga -- a showcase for Stephanie Germanotta's prodigious talents as a screen actress. And I say: Brava, Gaga! 

The French Dispatch: Topics in Faux Lit and French Letters*

Directed by Wes Anderson Starring Bill Murray, Tilda Swinton, Benicio Del Toro, Frances McDormand, Timothee Chalamet, Jeffrey Wright et al

 

(*extra credit if you know what a French letter is. Hardy har.) 

 As a writer, I'm familiar with the history of several literary-leaning magazines and writers whose work has become part of the canon. But I say "familiar" as in "I've heard of"; I'm no expert. I have never subscribed to The New Yorker magazine, though I have read a few articles over the years and respect its reputation for longform literary reporting. 

 In my opinion, you need to have more than a passing acquaintance with the heyday of The New Yorker Magazine and its merry band of 1950s and 60s writing luminaries, not to mention some knowledge of the inner workings of a publication, to fully appreciate the over-the-top storytelling, arch satire, and numerous inside jokes bulging from director Wes Anderson's towering tribute The French Dispatch.

 What brought me to The French Dispatch is an appreciation for the storybook framing and mildly-to-wildly comic tone of his previous films, such as The Grand Budapest Hotel, Moonrise Kingdom, The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou, The Royal Tenenbaums, Rushmore, and Bottle Rocket (I missed The Darjeeling Limited), and animated features The Isle of Dogs and The Fantastic Mr. Fox. It seems that with each new film, Anderson ups the ante on everything he's become known for as a filmmaker, and The French Dispatch is Anderson at his most Anderson: The incredibly detailed sets, the use of color, the number of characters and the high-profile casting, the intricate plot(s), the rapid pace and often matter-of-fact delivery of dialog, the frequently wide and static camera shots. In this film, more is ... more. 

 A viewer who has no knowledge of the film's paean to a past literary age can view it on its own terms, a rapidfire succession of oddball personalities doing oddball things. The plot is difficult to describe. It centers on a weekly newspaper insert of the Liberty, Kansas Evening Sun that covers world politics, art, and lifestyle. Based in France, in the fictional city of Ennui-Sur-Blase (a name that guarantees giggles), the paper was founded and published by an American trailblazer played by Anderson regular Bill Murray (feel free to look up who the publisher and his staff are inspired by in real life, it's too exhausting to fully describe here). 

The film begins with an Anjelica Huston voiceover describing the magazine's history and the fact that its publisher has died and decreed that the magazine end publication upon his death. And thus, we are privy to anthology of the very last issue, which includes a prologue and three stories from the paper's previous issues. The French Dispatch begins with a profile of the town of Ennui, a hilarious bit of dark reporting from Owen Wilson on a bicycle. The film then proceeds to three main stories. 

 The first is the best, in my opinion. The magnificent Benicio Del Toro plays a taciturn psychotic murderer confined to a French prison, who develops a talent for art, inspired by his muse and eventual lover, a frosty prison guard played by Lea Seydoux (who doesn't mind being fully nude on film). His paintings come to the attention of fellow prisoner and art dealer (Adrien Brody) desperate to find and exploit a new talent. Released from prison, the dealer ultimately convinces the recalcitrant artist to create a major masterpiece to unveil before a reception of rich international investors and art critics -- at the prison. The story includes sex, violence, near suicide, electrocution, a prison break, and a spectacular brawl frozen mid-action and photographed as a still tableau. Along the way, the dialog pillories the art world and its inhabitants. 

The second chapter is less interesting but no less frenetic. It revolves around a journalist played by Oscar winner Frances McDormand who covers a university student protest (much as real-life New Yorker writer Mavis Gallant covered the student uprisings in 1968 Paris). She interviews one of its young leaders (Timothee Chalamet, looking not unlike a bladeless Edward Scissorhands) and is soon embedded (and in bed) with the movement. This chapter's flavor is inspired by the French New Wave and the European ideal of older women priming younger men for romance, as the young revolutionary ultimately zooms off with a young lady on the back of his motorbike. (This is the chapter that made me consider leaving the theater in the middle of the flick, something I rarely do).

The last chapter is more engaging, but also with a complicated plot. It begins with French Dispatch food writer Roebuck Wright, played by a James Baldwin-esque Jeffrey Wright, being interviewed on a talk show (the host played by an unctious Lieb Schreiber). While on the show, Wright demonstrates to the studio audience his ability to recount, word for word, his most famous Dispatch article -- which is then reenacted in live action and eventually animation. The piece covers his quest to interview Lt. Nescoffier, a brilliant chef who creates ingenious meals for the police elite. Just as Wright sits down to sample the culinary skills at an exclusive precinct meal, the police commissioner is informed that his young son has been kidnapped. The story ramps up into the effort to rescue Junior from the clutches of a desperate gang and how the chef himself (Steve Park) makes the ultimately sacrifice to save the boy. There are two poignant moments in this tale: Wright recalls when he was arrested for being homosexual, and the publisher of The French Dispatch bailed him out and gave him a job; and when Wright and the Asian chef briefly comment on being foreigners in French society. 

The film is stuffed with clever banter, literary allusions, visual jokes, and beautifully detailed set design. For those who don't get all the jokes, this is still an incredible viewing experience. In addition to those mentioned, the cast includes Tilda Swinton, Willem Dafoe, Bob Balaban, Fisher Stevens, Griffin Dunne, Christoph Waltz, Jason Schwartzman, Elisabeth Moss, Henry Winkler, and Lois Smith. Some of these folks are only on screen for a few minutes. 

 The French Dispatch is really designed for a very distinct and discriminating audience, which is to say that it's definitely not everyone's cup of tea. Those who love Wes Anderson and truly get his intention, which was to create "a love letter to journalism," will adore this movie. It is an incredible piece of filmmaking. My appreciation of it is more aesthetic at this point; perhaps subsequent viewings (which the piece seems to demand) will reveal more of its charms. But among a series of Anderson films that have often been called "twee," "fey," "precious," and "outlandish," this one tops them all.

Cry Uncle! "The Many Saints of Newark"

The Many Saints of Newark
directed by Alan Taylor
written by David Chase and Lawrence Konner

I just watched The Many Saints of Newark, the prequel to The Sopranos, and while it had its moments, I'm not sure it really needed to be made. It's not exactly an origin story, but it's in The Sopranos Universe.

As a fan of that the long-running HBO series about the modern-day New Jersey mob capo who tried to manage family, love, and the often murderous flow of criminal business by visiting a shrink, I was interested in this film. I thought I would be seeing how the young and at one point presumably innocent Tony Soprano became big smart sexy scary sinister screwed-up Tony Soprano. But that's not what this film is about.

The clue that the film is about the many moral failings of Tony's psochopathic uncle Dickie Moltisanti is in the title: Moltisanti means "many saints" in Italian. This is explained in the early voiceover from beyond the grave by murdered Sopranos character Christopher Moltisanti, voiced once more by The Sopranos star Michael Imperioli (in a narrative nod to such films as Sunset Boulevard, where the narrator is already dead when the film begins).

It takes a while for the story to settle in after reacquainting us with the Molitsantis, Sopranos, and the others who frequent Satriale's Pork Store in 1960s Newark. Handsome and charismatic Dickie Moltisanti (Alessandro Nivola) is the boss, running a profitable numbers game in the hood with the help of Harold McBrayer (Leslie Odom, Jr.) with whom he went to high school. But racial tensions run high during that era, as civil rights legislation may have been enacted but holds no sway among the bigoted working-class Italians who remain in the city even as white flight has turned Newark into a largely black city. Tensions escalate when Harold decides he's had enough of being Dickie's errand boy and wants to run things himself, while simultaneously the streets erupt with protests then four days of rioting, looting, and burning in the historic 1967 Newark Riots, after a black cab driver is beaten and believed killed by the police. The riots give Dickie a cover for his own ghastly and impulsive act of violence.

Actor Alessandro Nivola looks the part, but he never really finds a rhythm as Dickie Moltisanti, who cycles between good intentions, criminal activity, family devotion, murder, and repentance. He's a seemingly good guy with some serious emotional issues. But do we root for him?
As Tony Soprano, the late actor James Gandolfini had several seasons in which to build an intensely compelling character who was both sympathetic and repellant; in this one-off prequel, Nivola doesn't get to dig as deep, so I found myself not really caring what becomes of him. (Not to mention the fact that to me, he looks a lot like Milo Ventimiglia, the good guy dad from TV's This Is Us). Maybe we're not supposed to care.

Actor Leslie Odom Jr., who portrays Harold McBrayer, Dickie's flunky-turned-adversary, fares far better in the narrative, having no equivalent in the Sopranos series and demonstrating the Black Power ethos of the era. One of the strengths of the film is that it gives so much attention, historically and culturally, to the considerable racial tensions from a ground-level point of view, without painting African Americans in a negative light. That's quite a trick, considering that Harold proves to be as cunning, dangerous, and quick on the trigger as Dickie.

The women in this film get short shrift. We don't get to see how Livia (Vera Farmiga) turns into the monster mother of adult Tony's nightmares, but we get a glimmer. But from the moment Dickie's father, Hollywood Dick, brings home Giuseppina (Michela de Rossi), his prized soon-to-be trophy wife from Italy, we know she will be the femme fatale of the piece. Looking like an Italian Penelope Cruz, Giuseppina is the very attractive fly in the ointment, the naive undoing of everyone around her.

Though we do see younger versions of familiar figures from The Sopranos universe, including Tony's lunkhead father Johnny, sister Janice, and narcissist mother Livia; soldier Paulie and consigliere Silvio; an arch and vindictive Uncle Junior (Corey Stoll); and fleeting looks at a young Carmela and a young Christopher, they are mere ciphers. In this plot, teenaged Tony's character is there to react as his favorite uncle Dickie at first grooms and counsels him, then emotionally and ultimately physically abandons him. Played by Michael Gandolfini, the lookalike son of James Gandolfini, young Tony Soprano loves rock music, wants to play football, and only has vague ideas of what his father and other relatives are really up to in the wee hours of the night. Losing Uncle Dickie is one of Tony Soprano's steps toward understanding the high price of "this thing of ours."

Given the ending, which offers something of a twist, I couldn't help noticing the film's zigzag pattern of uncles and their roles in this extended web of mob families. Unseen but shadowing the entire tale is the bitterness of the deceased Christopher Moltisanti, who bears a justifiable grudge against his "uncle" Tony Soprano for deeds that will come decades later; after the death of his father, Dickie Moltisanti seeks counsel and a kind of moral benediction from his imprisoned uncle, Sally (Ray Liotta, who also plays Dickie's father), to whom he nevertheless lies about his misdeeds; teenaged Tony is hurt and angry about being inexplicably snubbed by his uncle Dickie; and Uncle Junior ...? Well, though we don't see much of him in this film, we're abruptly reminded that he's the same touchy, merciless sociopath he's always been.

Maybe it should have been called "The Many Uncles of Newark."

Though the story created by The Sopranos originator David Chase can stand on its own, The Many Saints of Newark suffers from its comparison to The Sopranos. Were you really expecting a Mafia psychodrama that reaches the same heights as the beloved HBO series? Fuhggeddaboutit.

Movies Amid the Madness: I'm Ready to Share More Words On Flicks

In May 2019, I stopped doing my Words On Flicks podcast. This was partially beause of changes in my hosting platform and partly because ... I was tired. I was doing a live podcast every week, scripting it out for the most part because I'm not really that spontaneous, and working on getting guests.

When the podcast ended, I also slacked on writing any reviews on the Words On Flicks blog. Though there were still marvelous films being produced and released, I felt that I couldn't keep up with everything. I started to feel that I was one small voice in a maelstrom of bigger, louder voices of film analysis and film criticism, one tiny blip if old-fashioned radio talk in a world of tech bells and whistles, and few people were listening. This was partly due to the fact that I have never been a tech wizard and am certainly not the best at promoting myself.

Then 2020 began. We had aleady begun a reckoning in the cultural and political landscape as our maniac president was impeached but avoided conviction. Basketball hero Kobe Bryant was killed. Then by summer we rallied around #BlackLivesMatter, watching in horror as agaim and again, innocent people of color were killed for no reason. The coronavirus pandemic swooped in with a vengeance in March, shutting down large swaths of the country and beginning to fill hospital wards and, terrifyingly, funeral parlors. The West Coast was consumed by raging wildfires. A major explosion that could have been avoided tore through Beirut, killing hundreds and exposing Lebanon's faulty infrastructure. Hurricanes and tornadoes tore up oarts of the country. In the meantime, Covid 19 raged on, with officials ordering us to stay home and stay distanced, keeping us from our loved ones, limiting plans for socializing and travel, altering our work or taking it away altogether, forcing us to educate and entertain children who would have been in school, and challenging us to contemplate the fact that a random lapse in caution could lead to a death: ours or that of someone close to us. That is A LOT.

So I felt a bit burnt out and uninspired. In the midst of all of this, I wondered, do we still care about movies? Other than being mindless entertainment to divert us from these horrors, inconveniences, and conundrums, are movies important enough to continue to enjoy and discuss? These were my thoughts as I let 2020 slip by with no blog posts and the podcast buried.
Now it's 2021. Things are not much better; though we have elected a new president and the first female vice president of color, I would venture to say that the climate is not much changed otherwise. We're still mostly homebound. Our president is being impeached AGAIN. We just saw our Capitol mobbed and ransacked.

However, movies are still happening. Movies continue to be produced and enjoyed. Good movies! Now as ever before, movies are our comfort food, whether we watch them for the first time or for the hundredth time. Movies carry subtle and not so subtle messages, about our humanity, our resilience, our values, our dreams. Filmed stories influence our thinking, provide share experience, contain clues about how we behave and how we should or should not behave. They educate us about corners of history we didn't previously know (though often from a biased point of view); the propose previously unimagined scenarios and challenge our thinking about them. And yes, they divert and entertain us when the real world gets touch to cope with. That's a good thing, a hopeful thing. We can still enjoy them. And in doing so, we support new films and therefore support the people and the industry who make them.

So I have decided that this year, I am reviving Words On Flicks and I hope you will come along on the journey to share your thoughts, ideas, and opinions. The Words On Flicks podcast will launch in its second iteration sometime next month. I'll keep you posted.