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.